They greeted Diana with kisses and led her to the Daimler parked on the pier. It was ten years old but still opulent.
They could have come in the new white Escort but, said Jeanie, they had wanted to show off.
Effie was to drive as far as Lochgilphead and Jeanie the rest of the way to Kilcalmonell.
Diana sat in front.
They sped along the promenade towards the Holy Loch.
‘Any developments?’ asked Diana.
Effie shook her head. ‘Mama’s still in a state of rapture.’
‘Rapture’s the word,’ said Jeanie, from behind.
‘We’ve decided,’ said Effie, ‘that it’s going to turn out all right. Without bringing in God or anything like that, surely happiness like Mama’s, because she’s going to have a baby, deserves to be rewarded?’
‘What could be more deserving of good luck,’ said Jeanie, ‘than a woman who’s deliriously happy because she’s going to have a baby?’
‘A baby boy, after five daughters,’ said Effie.
‘Is she so sure then?’ asked Diana.
‘Utterly.’
‘You’re both speaking as if you think she’s going to go through with it.’
‘Oh, she’s going to go through with it,’ said Effie.
‘But what about the specialist?’
‘If there were ten specialists telling her it would be fatal, never mind dangerous, she’d still go through with it. Wouldn’t she, Jeanie?’
‘Yes, she would. We’re hoping the specialist will be able to advise us how to take care of her, so that everything will be all right in the end.’
‘When would it be?’
‘October. We won’t be at home then. It’ll all be left to Rowena and Rebecca.’
‘And Papa.’
‘Yes, but we’re afraid, Di, that if things went wrong poor Papa would go to pieces. He’s going to hire a nurse of course.’
It so happened that they were then driving through the village of Sandbank. On their right, in the Holy Loch, was the American depot ship Hunley. Two nuclear submarines nestled close to it.
Here were monstrosities that could kill a million women and their babies. Effie and Jeanie hated them and wanted to be rid of them, Diana hated them but thought that they prevented war. This evening they did not quarrel about it.
‘How’s University?’ asked Effie.
‘Busy. The exams are next week. How’s school?’
‘The Drama Club’s doing Julius Caesar. Jeanie and I are hoping to produce. Rowena’s Portia, Brutus’ wife. It isn’t a big part as you know but she makes all the rest look amateurish. Everybody says so. She’s astonishingly good.’
‘And so beautiful,’ said Jeanie. ‘Everybody just gasps when she comes on to the stage.’
‘And Rebecca?’
The three of them smiled happily. Their youngest sister always had this effect on them, and on others too. Her sweetness of temper captivated everyone.
They were now driving by the side of dark deep Loch Eck.
‘She says she’d love a little baby brother,’ said Effie.
‘She makes us feel ashamed,’ said Jeanie. ‘We never thought about congratulating Mama till she did.’
‘To tell the truth, Di,’ said Effie, ‘Jeanie and I like our family as it is. We don’t want any changes. This baby, boy or girl, will change everything.’
‘Rebecca says it will bring us all closer together,’ said Jeanie.
‘Anyway, it’s marvellous to see Mama so happy again,’ said Effie. ‘Even if she does say and do peculiar things. Like kissing the rowan tree.’
‘Like asking us to feel her tummy,’ said Jeanie.
‘Like starting to knit bootees,’ said Effie.
Mama was a notoriously bad knitter.
‘Like telling us the baby’s not just hers or Papa’s but all humanity’s,’ said Jeanie.
‘She’s just the vessel through which he will come into the world,’ said Effie.
‘Lots of things like that,’ said Jeanie, fondly.
That ended the conversation about Mama in the meantime, though each of them kept thinking about her.
They passed the end of the road that led to the village of Cairndow on the shore of Loch Fyne. The poet John Keats had stayed at the inn there during a walking tour more than a hundred years ago. The Sempills had once made a detour to see ‘Keats’ room’. Every time they came this way they quoted some of his poetry. They were young and he had died young.
Effie spoke the opening lines of La Belle Dame Sans Merci:
‘Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?’
Jeanie finished the verse:
‘The sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing.’
They fell silent then. They realised it was a picture of how the world would be if Mama died.
They crossed the bridge at the head of the loch and turned westwards towards Inverary.
‘I’ve invited Peggy Gilchrist for a weekend,’ said Diana.
‘Peggy Gilchrist?’ said Jeanie.
‘The girl I share a room with. I’ve mentioned her often. You’ve said you’d like to meet her.’
‘The labourer’s daughter that studies history?’ asked Effie.
‘Yes.’
‘Is she coming?’ asked Jeanie.
‘I think so.’
‘When? I hope not soon. We’ve got this matter of Mama to settle first, haven’t we? We don’t want strangers about.’
‘Sometime next month I suggested, if she can get off work.’
‘What work?’ asked Effie.
‘In a supermarket.’
Diana felt disappointed and annoyed too. The twins, especially Effie, called themselves radicals. They should have been enthusiastic about Peggy’s visit.
Have we, she thought, become so selfish, so satisfied with ourselves, that we resent intruders, no matter who they are?
‘I would like her to meet Edwin,’ she said.
‘That should be interesting,’ said Jeanie.
‘If she meets Nigel that would be more interesting still,’ said Effie.
‘I don’t think it would be necessary for her to meet Nigel,’ said Diana, rather peevishly.
‘I’m a bit surprised she’s agreed to come,’ said Effie. ‘I’d have thought, from what you’ve told us about her, that she’d have refused. Doesn’t she regard us as the sort to be abolished come the revolution?’
‘If I was in her place I’d want to abolish people like us,’ said Jeanie, ‘living on the fat of the land on unearned income.’
‘Peggy’s not like that.’
‘Then she ought to be,’ said Effie, ‘if she’s as poor as you’ve said she is.’
‘If this is your attitude I had better cancel the invitation.’
‘Perhaps you should,’ said Jeanie.
They were then passing Inverary Castle, built in the eighteenth century in the style of a French chateau. The original castle had been sacked by Montrose and his Irish caterans in 1644. The then Marquis, chieftain of the Campbells, had fled in a boat to Greenock, leaving his clansmen to be harried and slaughtered, and earning himself the name of coward.
Four
THOUGH SHE would marry and have children and live in a grander house Diana knew that she would never experience a greater joy than returning home to Poverty Castle, even after a short absence. No one was particularly demonstrative, not even the dogs or cats or peacock. They were all deeply and quietly glad to see her and she to see them. The twins rushed in, shouting that they were home and very hungry. Rowena came down the stairs, with one of the cats in her arms. Rebecca appeared wearing an apron, for she had been helping in the preparations for dinner. Papa in his shabby kilt made for the sherry bottle and glasses. Mama rushed in with floury hands, took her glass of sherry, kissed Diana, and asked how the journey had been. Diana herself, at the centre of all this affectionate attention, felt grateful and humble.
/> Later, alone in her room for a few minutes before dinner, she found herself in tears. It could hardly be because of anxiety about Mama, because Mama had seemed the most carefree of them all. Nor could it be because of Papa’s melancholy eyes, which were familiar. It couldn’t be either because the twins, whom she loved, disapproved of her marrying into a titled family. Had they not ‘forgiven’ her for that? It must be the sadness at the heart of things, ‘lacrimae rerum’, which made the poetry of Keats so moving, memorable and truthful.
There was a knock on the door. Quickly she wiped away the tears.
It was Rebecca. There was no one Diana would have been more pleased to see.
She had changed into a pretty pink dress. ‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes,’ she said. ‘I wanted to talk to you first. I thought you looked so worried.’
‘Did I? I thought I was hiding it. I am worried of course, about Mama. Though I must say it’s a long time since I saw her look so well.’
‘She’s often in pain.’
Diana was taken aback. ‘How do you know? Did she tell you?’
‘Yes, but she made me promise not to tell anyone. I haven’t told Papa yet or the twins or Rowena. I had to tell you, Diana. I need your advice.’
‘Does the doctor know?’
‘He didn’t, until I told him.’
‘Some doctor!’
‘Be fair, Diana. How was he to know? Mama keeps telling him she feels fine.’
‘Why doesn’t she tell him about the pain?’
‘She’s afraid she won’t be allowed to have the baby. She agreed to let the specialist examine her as long as it was understood that he was going to advise how she could have the baby safely, and not that she should get rid of it. We’ve all had to agree with that, Diana. You’ll have to agree to it too, so please don’t try to make her change her mind.’
If none of them dared to say it Diana saw that she must. ‘But if the specialist says that it would be too dangerous for her to have the baby, are we to say nothing? Are we to let Mama die in front of our eyes?’
‘It’s her decision, Diana. She’s thought about it a long time. She’s got a right to take the risk, if that’s what she wants to do.’
Diana hardly recognised her sweet-natured thirteen-year-old sister in this resolute realist in the pink dress, who had made a heart-rending decision and was going to keep to it.
Something else had to be said. Diana kept bitterness out of her voice, though she felt some. ‘Is this baby more important than the rest of us?’
‘I knew you would say that, Diana. It’s not fair and it doesn’t help.’
‘I have to say what I think, Rebecca.’
‘As long as you don’t say it to Mama.’
‘What if it isn’t a boy? Would Mama think the risk worth taking if she thought it would be another girl?’
‘Yes, she would. If it’s a girl she’ll love it just as much.’
‘She’d be terribly disappointed.’
‘We would all be, wouldn’t we, for her sake? But if we helped her she’d soon get over it. Do you know what I think, Diana? I think this baby, whether it’s a boy or girl, will bring us together again.’
‘Aren’t we together now?’
‘You know what I mean. We’re not nearly as close to one another as we used to be.’
‘That’s inevitable. We’re all getting older.’
‘Well, I think this baby could bring us all close together again.’
Yes, if all goes well, thought Diana.
Rebecca changed the subject. ‘The twins said you’ve invited Peggy Gilchrist for a weekend.’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Why? We would all like to meet her.’
‘When I mentioned it to the twins they were far from enthusiastic.’
‘They’re not very enthusiastic about anything just now. Because of Mama. Don’t change your mind, Diana. Invite her. I mean, urge her to come. From what you’ve told us about her I think she could be good for us.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, she’s always been poor and we’ve always been well-off. It’s not been our fault, it’s just been our good luck, but maybe it’s made us selfish in some way we can’t see ourselves. She might help us to see it.’
They heard then the bell being rung for dinner. They wondered who could be ringing it so merrily.
‘It must be Mama,’ said Rebecca.
When they went downstairs they found that it had been Mama.
Except when they had guests they ate in the big whitewashed kitchen. It made things easier for the cook, who was Mama, her assistant Rebecca, and the waitresses, who were in turn Effie, Jeanie, and Rowena. Papa was in charge of the wine. On most occasions it was only his own glass he kept refilling, not because he was too greedy to share but because Mama put a limit on what the girls were allowed to drink. This evening she did not. Four bottles were consumed, and everybody, including Mama herself, ended up tipsy. She kept saying that this over-indulgence on her part was unpardonable, however she was sure little Roderick would forgive her, since this was no ordinary dinner but a celebration: it was the first time the whole family, all eight of them, were together. She could feel Roderick stirring and growing inside her. She laughed at that and at many other things. It was, Diana thought, to defy the pain.
‘I keep calling your little brother Roderick, though we haven’t yet discussed his name. What do you think? Is there a Roderick in Sir Walter, my love?’
Papa gravely replied there was.
‘Didn’t you once say, Mama, that if you have a boy you would call him Nigel?’ asked Effie.
‘Nigel is no longer popular among the Sempills,’ said Jeanie.
‘What do you think, Papa?’ asked Rebecca. ‘What name would you like?’
‘Nigel. Guy. Quentin. Roderick. Peveril. Any one of those would suit.’
‘Not Peveril, my dear,’ cried Mama.
‘Let’s try them out,’ said Effie. ‘Nigel Sempill.’
‘Guy Sempill,’ said Jeanie.
‘Quentin Sempill,’ said Rebecca.
‘Peveril Sempill,’ said Diana.
‘Roderick Sempill,’ said Papa.
They were all agreed that Roderick Sempill sounded best.
‘Of course his middle name must be Edward,’ cried Mama.
After dinner Papa proposed that they should have one of their old Sir Walter Scott nights. The girls would rather have listened to some new Bob Dylan records but agreed that they ought to give Papa his wish. So, after clearing away and washing up, they went to the living-room where they found that Papa had brought the white plaster bust of Sir Walter from his study and placed it in the middle of the room on a pedestal, where it was in danger of being knocked over by Rab, the collie who had taken Bruce’s place. He was always pretending that he was chasing sheep, and Sir Walter’s white head did have a sheep-like look about it, said Effie, who then had to kiss Papa to atone for the blasphemy. Rab was ordered to lie in a corner. Wallace was stretched out in front of the fire, and Macho the big orange tom-cat, dozed on a window ledge, paying as little attention to the hubbub within as to the splendid view outside, of the sea and the bens of Jura, tinted with evening sunshine.
Mama was first. With Jeanie accompanying her on the piano she sang the ballad Jock o’ Hazeldean, with spirit and enjoyment, especially the last two triumphant lines:
‘She’s o’er the border and awa’
wi Jock o’ Hazeldean.’
At one point Diana noticed her mother clutch her side but it was so momentary that she would have missed it if she hadn’t been watching intently.
The twins then recited Lochinvar, verse about, and the last verse together. Now and then they consulted the book, but this had always been permissible. Rowena though, when she began to enact the dramatic poem Rosabelle did it all from memory, and did it so well that the others were enthralled. When they were younger and living in Edinburgh Papa had taken them to Roslin Chapel, where they ha
d seen:
‘. . . that chapel proud
Where Roslin’s chieftains uncoffined lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply,’
though there had not been then any ‘wondrous blaze.’
Diana had always known that much of Scott’s poetry was sad, indeed that was one of its attractions for Papa, but never before had she realised the tragic quality of that sadness so keenly as she did then listening to Rowena: ‘But the sea caves rung, And the wild winds sung’ and watching Mama who, like the Maid of Neidpath, sometimes ‘grew an ashy pale’.
Rebecca sang Bonnie Dundee with everybody, including Wallace, joining in the chorus. They were all defying not the ‘Lords of Convention’ or the ‘sour-featured Whigs’ or the ‘cowls of Kilmarnock’ but Fate that had had the impertinance to threaten the happiness and security of the Sempills.
Diana herself kept up that defiance. The twins asked for Proud Maisie but she read instead the Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, with its rousing summon to war:
‘Come as the winds come when
Forests are rended
Come as the waves come when
Navies are stranded.’
It was not Clan Donuil but the Sempill family that she was exhorting. If they kept faith with one another they would prevail. Though she read it quietly her family recognised her purpose and when she finished were silent, until Mama cried, ‘Do you know, Diana, when I was a little girl of ten I knew that poem by heart?’
Papa’s contribution was always kept to the last, because it was always much the longest, being a reading from one of the novels. This evening it was from the Legend of Montrose and described Sir Dugald Dalgetty’s adventures in Inverary Castle. He read it well, with the red rays of sunset, another ‘wondrous blaze’, shining on him through the window.
As she listened Diana, who such a short time ago had been rallying them all to be hopeful, confident, and brave, suddenly was overwhelmed by a surge of foreboding. Mama was going to die. Diana felt like a character in a Scott poem, smitten by a tragic prophecy. Like proud Maisie indeed, except that it had been her own death that Maisie foresaw. Outwardly calm, with her hands still in her lap, Diana rebuked herself for being so foolish, she was Diana Sempill who had always been contemptuous of superstition, and yet that black knowledge covered her mind. Was it the effect of the wine? Or was it because she had been told about Mama’s secret pain? Or was it a feeling that it had been decided, somewhere, that the Sempills had been lucky long enough? Whatever the reasons she sat in the room reddened by sunset, close to the others and yet remote from them. They were looking not only hopeful, confident, and brave, but happy too.
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