Meanwhile Mr Patterson was introducing his small stout wife to their tall slender hostess. He had instantly fallen in love again with the delightful lady in the dress with the huge yellow spangles. At some time that afternoon, he vowed, he must touch that soft delectable body, not in lust but in homage. After a few glasses of this excellent champagne he might well have had the temerity to attempt it, but alas, Bessie who might not have noticed a furtive momentary lovelorn graze of knuckle against thigh or buttock, for she was of the mistaken opinion that erotic passion had long since deserted him, would certainly have noticed any glass he drank beyond the two that she had reluctantly agreed it would be safe for him to drink. Neither she nor Peggy McGibbon could drive. That they would be able because of that deficiency to drink as much as they liked was, she would have said, being a keen bowler, the rub of the green. Indeed she had already finished her first, supplied by Mr Sempill himself, whom, like every other woman present that afternoon, she would have liked to tie a ribbon on and take home with her: a confession she was to make that night while getting ready for bed.
Mrs Patterson, however, like Miss McGibbon and Miss McGill, was not one of those ladies whom their host invited to stroll round the garden with him. This could have been because they were not young and comely enough, but a more honourable reason was that, being disillusioned by age and varicose veins and collapsed stomach muscles, they might have dismissed as nonsense his metaphysical musings on the beauty and magic of the rowan tree.
Unfortunately the young and comely ladies, including the narcissistic Miss McKay, turned out to be consumed by mundanities, such as what the tartan was in his kilt, how much the restoration of the house cost, and were his wife’s pearls genuine.
Sixteen
AT HALF past four Papa addressed his assembled guests. Mama had suggested, backed up by the girls, that he should say something very short like ‘Thank you for coming. Enjoy yourselves.’ They were afraid that he might give a lecture on what was wrong with the world and how it could be put right. Therefore when, standing on a beer crate, he rang the small bronze bell that one of Granny Ruthven’s uncles had brought from a temple in Lhasa, and the guests gathered round him expectantly, Effie, Jeanie, Rowena, and Rebecca rushed upstairs to watch from their playroom window, with their fingers crossed.
They saw Diana lurking behind some rhododendrons with Fiona. She had shocked her sisters by muttering that she hoped Papa didn’t make a fool of himself. That was something not even to be thought far less spoken, particularly in the presence of an outsider.
Mama stood beside Papa. The girls never loved her more than when she was giving him support, even though she was wishing he wasn’t doing what he was doing.
He raised his hand. The piper, somewhere on the machair, just at the right distance, began playing ‘The Rowan Tree’. In spite of seagulls screaming jealously everybody recognised the tune.
‘I hope he’s not going to ask Mama to sing,’ said Effie.
‘Maybe he’s going to read them a story,’ said Rebecca.
Papa often read the girls stories, usually from one of Sir Walter Scott’s books.
He rang the bell again and then spoke. ‘I asked Mr McLeod to play that tune because, as you all know, it represents for us Scots the sanctities of home or should I say hame? Let me most cordially welcome you to mine and my family’s: Poverty Castle. I have been asked several times this afternoon if that is what the house is now to be called. Yes, it is. I have also been asked why. Well, in the first place, that is the name by which it has been known locally for the past thirty years, when it lay in a state of dilapidation. Happily, as you see, it has been restored.’
He turned and looked at the tall white house which gleamed in the sunshine like a lighthouse. His audience looked at it too, to the embarrassment of the girls who hid behind the curtains.
‘Some of you have told me it no longer deserves the name Poverty Castle and should revert to its original name Ardmore, which as you know means in Gaelic ‘the big field’, but such a name though a fine one in itself has merely local connotations, whereas it seems to me Poverty Castle is a name with national significance. Does it not sum up the situation of Scotland itself, a country in some ways grand and noble but in other ways small-minded and poverty-stricken?’
The girls saw Mama giving his kilt a tug.
Effie groaned. ‘He’s giving a speech.’
On the beach John McLeish and some of his friends were skiffing stones along the surface of the water. They had no right to be there for the beach was private but the girls almost wished they were with them. They hated the way some of the men were laughing at Papa.
‘In one thing it will always be rich,’ cried Papa, ‘and that is hospitality. Do not, I beg you, make this your one and only visit. I hope to see you all here many times.’
The girls groaned. Yet, though appalled by the prospect of all those people dropping in whenever they liked, they could not help feeling proud of Papa. No one tried harder than he to like people, whether they deserved to be liked or not.
He continued. ‘Some of you have been asking about Ardmore beach, surely the most idyllic and safest on the whole coast. What glorious views of Jura! Look how those white sands shine.’
Everybody turned and looked. The sands indeed were shining, as if at Papa’s command. The sun at that moment had just come out from behind a cloud. All the same, if anybody deserved to perform a miracle it was Papa.
‘According to the title deeds, as Mr Patterson will confirm, the owners or occupiers of Ardmore, now Poverty Castle, are guaranteed unrestricted use of the beach, though it lies within the grounds of the estate. Are you not all my friends? From today upon every one of you is conferred the freedom of Ardmore beach.’
The girls groaned again. In theory they thought it right and proper that the villagers should be allowed to use the beach, but they were dismayed that a place which they had come to regard as their very own might be frequented by hordes of outsiders. Luckily, something would prevent such an infestation: difficulty of access.
Papa was not finished. ‘I know, from painful experience, that it is far from easy to reach the beach, coming through the fields. But have you not come here, along the new road, with ease?’
His audience were very much interested now. Ardmore was a beach that they would certainly wish to visit often, not just because it was idyllic and safe, with glorious views of Jura, but also because from time immemorial it had been forbidden. The question was, did Sempill, the simpleton, have the authority to make the offer?
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Sempill,’ cried one, ‘but what about the estate? What about those notices?’
‘Wouldn’t Sir Edwin object?’ cried another.
‘Not to mention Lady Campton?’ cried a third.
‘They might well object,’ replied Papa, ‘but their objections would go unheeded. If anyone was impertinent enough to try and stop you, all you would have to say was that you were visiting your friends, the Sempills of Poverty Castle. I shall myself make the position clear to Sir Edwin. Mr Patterson, would we have the law on our side?’
Nudged by his wife, who was on her fifth glass of champagne, Mr Patterson said that in his opinion Mr Sempill’s friends would be legally entitled to use the beach.
‘But wouldn’t that mean close friends or relatives?’ cried a woman this time.
‘It is for me to say who are my friends,’ cried Papa, ‘not Sir Edwin Campton and his lawyers.’
They were convinced. They applauded sincerely. Some went forward to shake his hand.
Never had the girls felt fonder and prouder of him, and more exasperated.
The last of the guests did not leave till after seven, when the champagne, coca-cola, beer, and strawberry tarts were finished. There had been damage. Flower beds had been trampled on, flowers wantonly plucked, bunches of berries pulled off the rowan tree. The chains of the swing had been tied in knots. Some child had been sick on the bathroom carpet. Moustaches ha
d been pencilled on many of Rebecca’s dolls. Don Quixote’s lance had been snapped off. Such mishaps were to be expected, said Papa staunchly: children were by nature boisterous and rough-handed. The girls suffered that insult in silence. Mama, laughing, pulled up her skirt and showed on her left buttock a yellow and purple bruise, the result of a particularly adoring pinch. Would anyone, she cried, like to kiss it better? To the girls’ open consternation and secret delight Papa did, kneeling like a knight of old.
It was then that Effie brought up the subject of the stolen paperweight.
‘Oh no!’ cried Mama. She had bought it in Venice as a present for Papa, before they were married.
She rushed off to the study and came back with a tragic face.
‘It’s gone, right enough,’ she cried.
‘We said it was, Mama,’ said Effie.
‘It is only a paperweight, darling,’ said Papa, ‘worth only a few pounds.’
‘It is worth a lot more than that. It is a symbol of our love.’
‘Here are more precious symbols,’ he said, looking at the girls.
‘We’ll have to get it back,’ said Effie, grimly. ‘It should be easy because we know who took it.’
‘Are you sure it was this boy McLeish?’
‘We saw him, Papa. Didn’t we, Jeanie?’
‘With our own eyes,’ said Jeanie.
‘Why didn’t you stop him?’ asked Rowena.
‘We couldn’t. He didn’t know we were watching.’
‘Were you spying on him?’ asked Rebecca.
‘We were keeping an eye on him, because we didn’t trust him.’
‘If you don’t trust people you help to make them dishonest,’ said Diana.
‘That’s rubbish,’ screamed Effie. ‘Isn’t that rubbish, Papa?’
‘It is, Effie my dear, and yet it isn’t. Some people will abuse trust, but there are others whom it will redeem.’
‘It would be stupid trusting John McLeish. He stole the paperweight. He whispered “Tinker trash” to Annie McPhee though he promised Miss McGill he wouldn’t.’
‘He is evidently a misguided child.’
‘He’s not a child. He’s older than us.’
‘He is to be pitied. His parents have not brought him up properly.’
The twins made grimaces of impatience. Papa was always talking about people who should be pitied. He never talked about people who should be punished.
‘I want you to promise,’ he said, solemnly, ‘never to mention the paperweight to him.’
They were horrified. ‘But, Papa, if he gets away with it he’ll just steal again. Isn’t that right, Mama?’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ said Mama. ‘He seems to be that kind of boy. Perhaps we should ask Miss McGill to deal with it, darling.’
‘It did not happen in the school, Meg. It happened here, in our house. We must deal with it ourselves. I say we should simply forget it.’
‘That’s hardly dealing with it, darling.’
‘You’re always saying we should tell the truth, Papa,’ said Effie.
‘So you are, Papa,’ said Jeanie. Rowena and Rebecca nodded.
‘Sometimes it is wiser to say nothing.’
‘Papa is right,’ said Mama, with a sigh. ‘We are new here. We wish to be on good terms with our neighbours. I believe the McLeish family is well thought of.’
‘John isn’t,’ said Jeanie. ‘Nobody likes him.’
‘I must say I did not take to him myself,’ said Mama. ‘But perhaps it is not worth antagonising our neighbours for the sake of a paperweight, even one with sentimental value. I shall buy one to replace it.’
‘Blessed are those that forgive,’ said Papa.
‘If we see him with it,’ yelled Effie, indignantly, ‘because he’s sure to show it off to his friends, are we just to say nothing?’
‘Are we to pretend it’s not ours, that we’ve never seen it before?’ cried Jeanie.
‘Yes, you are to say nothing. Yes, you are to pretend that you never saw it before. The way of the virtuous is never easy.’
Diana then threw a bombshell. ‘We shouldn’t forget that Rowena took that glass cat from the shop. We wouldn’t have liked it if the shopkeeper had come running after us, shouting that she was a thief.’
The twins were outraged by this treachery. ‘That was different,’ they cried.
Mama turned pale. ‘How dare you, Diana?’
Rowena smiled.
‘Rowena just pretended to take it,’ said Rebecca. ‘It was a game.’
‘Perhaps John McLeish was playing a game too. Perhaps he intends to give it back. Perhaps he’s already given it back.’
‘That’s rubbish,’ cried Effie, in tears of anger.
‘He could have left it somewhere in the garden. We haven’t looked.’
‘We jolly soon will,’ yelled Effie.
She and Jeanie rushed off to begin the search. Rowena and Rebecca followed them.
‘You should not have said that about Rowena,’ said Mama to Diana. ‘You hurt her feelings.’
Diana kept quiet. It amazed her that Mama who loved them and had seen them every day of their lives still did not know them all that well. No doubt it was possible to hurt Rowena’s feelings, but Diana had never seen it done.
Scattered about the garden were several naked stone nymphs. In the mossy lap of one of these Jeanie found the paperweight.
Seventeen
THE DISTANCE from Poverty Castle to the primary school was over a mile. The twins would have preferred to cycle but since this was as yet beyond Rebecca’s strength they were all taken and brought back by Papa in the car. After losing Diana it was very important for them to keep together.
By November there had been a number of additions to the family: two Labrador puppies, Wallace and Bruce, five cats, a white rabbit, and a dozen or so tropical fish.
The dogs always went with Papa to fetch the girls. After a day of disconsolate moping, relieved now and then by chasing the kittens and each other, they were into the car before Papa himself, whining with anticipation and barking at him to drive faster. When the girls got in, their faces, hands, and knees were immediately beslobbered. Wallace kept up a shrill undulating whine which was his song of welcome, while Bruce, less musical, produced a series of ecstatic yelps.
One dull wet afternoon, when it was already dark by four. Papa said, with a chuckle, above the noises of the dogs: ‘Why the gloomy faces?’
‘It’s always raining,’ said Effie. ‘It was raining yesterday and the day before.’
‘We think we should have gone to Spain to live,’ said Rebecca.
‘You wouldn’t have met Wallace and Bruce then.’
‘There are dogs in Spain, aren’t there?’ said Jeanie.
‘But they wouldn’t understand English,’ said Rowena.
‘We would have spoken to them in Spanish,’ said Effie.
‘Uno, dos, tres.’
‘I’ve forgotten mine,’ said Rebecca.
‘Cheer up,’ said Papa. ‘There’s a letter for you.’
‘For who?’ asked Effie.
‘For all of you. Addressed to Diana, Effie, Jeanie, Rowena, and Rebecca Sempill.’
‘There wouldn’t be much room on the envelope,’ said Jeanie.
‘It can’t be from Granny Ruthven,’ said Rowena, ‘because she writes to Mama.’
‘It’s not from Granny,’ said Papa, ‘unless she’s become a pupil at Eton College.’
Even the dogs, it seemed, were surprised. ‘We don’t know anybody at Eton College,’ said Effie.
‘Are you sure?’
‘How do you know it’s from Eton College, Papa?’ asked Jeanie. ‘Did you open it?’
‘Where’s Eton College?’ asked Rebecca.
‘I am not in the habit of opening other people’s correspondence. Eton College, my dear, is in Windsor, England.’
‘There’s a castle at Windsor,’ said Rowena. ‘A real castle.’
‘Eton College is the scho
ol where the sons of the English aristocracy and renegade Scottish aristocracy too are educated.’
‘How do you know it’s from Eton College if you didn’t open it?’ asked Jeanie.
‘Because it has the name embossed on the envelope. Are you sure you don’t know anybody there?’
They asked Wallace and Bruce to be quiet to let them think. ‘You’ve got short memories,’ said Papa. ‘What about Edwin, the long-nosed cricketer?’
They did not approve of his joke.
‘It’s not his fault if his nose is long,’ said Rebecca.
‘Didn’t he tell you he was going to Eton?’
They remembered.
‘If it’s from Edwin,’ said Effie, ‘it’s not for us, it’s for Diana.’
‘Why for Diana in particular? It’s addressed to you all.’
‘He would be too shy to address it just to her,’ said Jeanie.
‘He’s in love with Diana,’ said Rowena.
‘And Diana’s in love with him,’ said Rebecca, so seriously that they all, including the dogs, laughed.
‘I wasn’t aware of this great romance,’ said Papa. ‘I don’t think Mama is either.’
‘I suppose it’s a secret,’ said Effie.
‘We shouldn’t have told you, Papa,’ said Jeanie.
‘Don’t worry. I can keep a secret. Am I to let Mama know?’
‘Yes, but she’s not to tease Diana,’ said Effie.
‘Edwin didn’t want to go to Eton,’ said Rebecca.
The envelope was on the silver salver in the hall, with petals from a bowl of chrysanthemums fallen on it. Still with their raincoats and Wellingtons on they took it into the living-room to examine it. The words Eton College were embossed in white letters.
‘Do you think he’s sent his photograph?’ asked Effie, feeling for it.
‘No.’ Jeanie was positive. ‘If he was good-looking he would have sent it, but he isn’t.’
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