The English Air

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Well?” inquired Roy. “Well, what about it? Do come, Frank, it would be a tremendous spree.”

  “Can you wait a week?” asked Frank.

  “Of course I can,” said Roy, “I’ll go home. I’d have to go home for part of my leave, anyhow—I mean I want to.”

  “Right,” said Frank, making up his mind to take the plunge. “Right you are. Where do I meet you?”

  The Outing started under the most favourable auspices. The sun shone and Agatha behaved beautifully. Roy and Frank took turns at the wheel and they spun up the Great North Road in tremendous style. It was cold, of course, for it was only the beginning of March, and Agatha was extremely draughty, but Roy and Frank were young and hardy; they swathed themselves in scarves and enjoyed every moment.

  At Newcastle they turned westwards—not by any preconceived plan, but merely because they happened to take the wrong road and could not be bothered to return.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Roy said, looking at the map, “it doesn’t matter a hoot. This road takes us to Scotland too—it goes past a place called Carter Bar.”

  “Is there a place to stay?” inquired Frank who was busy negotiating the heavy traffic in the Newcastle streets.

  “There’s Otterburn,” said Roy. “I suppose that’s a village of some sort … then we come to Carter Bar, and then to Jedburgh. Mary Queen of Scots used to stay there,” added Roy, announcing this interesting scrap of history with some pride.

  He was rather sorry afterwards that he had remembered it for Frank was always eager to absorb knowledge and made so many pertinent inquiries about the unfortunate queen that Roy was completely out of his depth.

  “She was married to a fellow called Darnley,” said Roy, racking his brains in a vain attempt to satisfy his insatiable companion, “and then there was Bothwell. She married him, too, but that was after they’d blown up the first husband … or wait, I believe they stabbed him with knives when he was having supper with Mary in her room … but no, that was another fellow. She was very beautiful, anyhow,” declared Roy, who was thankful to find something which was beyond all doubt.

  “She must have been,” agreed Frank.

  “And she ended up by having her head cut off.”

  “Why?”

  “It was Elizabeth,” explained Roy. “Good Queen Bess … she didn’t like Mary for some reason … Here’s Otterburn,” he added with a sigh of relief. “Here’s Otterburn, Frank. It looks a nice pub,—let’s stop.”

  Frank drew up at the hotel and they went in. It was a very nice pub indeed and the beer was most satisfactory. Two small rooms happened to be available, so the travellers engaged them for the night and having put Agatha safely into the hotel garage they went out for a bit of a walk to stretch their legs. They had not gone far when Roy noticed a small mill and he pointed it out to Frank.

  “Otterburn Mill,” he said. “They make tweed there. Let’s go in and see what it’s like, shall we?”

  Frank agreed at once and they turned in at the gate and found themselves in a small shop stocked with woollen goods of every description. The rugs fascinated Roy and after some little hesitation he decided to buy one, explaining to Frank that it was not really extravagant because they were going north and they would probably be very glad of it. Frank was looking at the scarves. There was a soft, blue one—very thick and fluffy—with a fawn pattern on the ends. It was a lovely scarf and it reminded him of Wynne—not that he needed any reminder.

  “All right,” said Frank. “And I shall have this—how much is it?”

  “It’s far too light,” said Roy firmly. “The colour, I mean. It’s really a woman’s scarf and it’ll get frightfully dirty in about five minutes.”

  “I know,” said Frank, taking the money out of his pocket.

  “You’d be far better with a brown one,” Roy urged him. “Here’s one, Frank … or there’s a green one with a brown pattern … that’s a woman’s scarf.”

  “I know,” said Frank again.

  “Oh, I see,” said Roy, and he turned away and completed his purchase of the rug.

  “As a matter of fact,” said Frank, as they left the mill with their parcels under their arms, “as a matter of fact … it’s really … I mean I bought it for Wynne. Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “For Wynne?” inquired Roy incredulously.

  Frank did not reply.

  “Good lord!” said Roy. “I never thought that you … I mean I never … well, of course she’ll like it. Any girl would.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Frank and Roy stayed the night at Otterburn and went on their way the following morning. They stopped at Jedburgh for lunch and to see Queen Mary’s house and fortunately for Roy there was a guide to show them round. Roy was able to sit back—as it were—and enjoy the spectacle of another man being pursued and harried by a stream of searching questions upon the fortunes of Mary, Queen of Scots, upon the customs of the day, upon the social, political and religious factors which had conspired to encompass her death.

  After that Roy and Frank continued north in a curiously haphazard manner, taking any road that seemed good to them at the moment and staying at various more or less comfortable inns. They were very happy together, talking long and earnestly about one thing and another and incidentally learning to know each other pretty well. They discussed international politics too, but here they did not agree so well and, after one or two somewhat heated arguments which led nowhere at all, they decided to leave such controversial subjects alone.

  “We’ll leave them to people who know more about them,” said Roy, and Frank agreed.

  By this time they had penetrated into the heart of the Western Highlands and world affairs seemed very far away. Some days they did not bother to buy a newspaper, for it was not easy to procure one and it seemed more important to buy food for themselves and petrol for Agatha and to find a reasonably comfortable shelter for the night.

  They came at last to a small fishing-hotel on the banks of a river and here they were forced to call a halt, for Agatha, who had been going so well and had caused no trouble whatever, suddenly decided that she would go no farther.…

  “Well,” said Roy as he climbed out of the seat, “well, of course I suppose it’s rather decent of her to die here. I mean she might have died in the middle of a blasted heath or something. I wonder what that pub’s like.”

  It was called, “The Argyll Arms” and it was so clean and so comfortable and provided such an excellent supper at such a moderate cost that any slight irritation they might have felt evaporated completely.

  “Agatha has chosen well,” declared Frank.

  “By Jove, she has,” agreed his companion. “There are no flies on Agatha. We’ll have a good look at her inside tomorrow—she needs greasing, I expect.”

  “We might stay here,” Frank suggested. “We might do some walking.”

  “Yes,” said Roy, “yes it’s a grand idea. I’m sick of sitting in Agatha all day. We’ll climb that mountain.”

  They engaged a comfortable room with two beds in it and unpacked their suitcases which had never been properly unpacked since they started. Frank took out the scarf which he had bought for Wynne and looked at it … yes, it was just as pretty as he had thought and he was more glad than ever that he had bought it. How lovely to think that some day it would be folded round Wynne’s neck to keep her warm … his scarf! He gloated over its colour and it soft fleecy texture and then he rolled it up again in the paper and put it carefully in the bottom of his suitcase.

  The following day was misty and drizzly, and the mountain which Roy had wanted to climb was completely blotted out. Nobody would have known that there was any mountain there, or that there had ever been a mountain.

  “But it is there all right,” said Roy, “because I asked the inn-keeper fellow and he told me its name … sounded as if he was gargling.”

  They spent the day profitably in greasing Agatha and cleaning her carburettor and plugs and tightening up h
er brakes and she responded to this unwonted attention in a satisfactory manner.

  “There,” shouted Frank as Agatha’s engine burst into a rapid staccato—more like the explosions of a machine-gun than those of a petrol-driven motor—“There, Roy, what d’you think of that?”

  “Grand,” yelled Roy as he washed his hands under the garage tap. “By Jove she’ll go like smoke when we leave here and go on.”

  The air was so soft that Roy and Frank slept late into the following morning and, although the day was fine and sunny and the mountain had appeared again in all its rugged magnificence, they decided that they must put off their climb. They consulted the inn-keeper about this and he agreed that they must get up early—very early indeed—if they wanted to get to the top and back before dark. He suggested that they should take a shorter walk today, they might go over to Inverdrum—it was a “fine wee town” and well-worth seeing. They could buy anything they wanted there or they could go to the pictures.

  “The pictures!” echoed Roy. “Do you mean there’s actually a picture-house near here—a theatre where they show films?”

  The inn-keeper assured him that there was. “It’s only four miles by the hill path,” he added encouragingly. “I could find out what’s on for you.”

  Roy had only asked the question out of curiosity (it seemed so strange to think of a picture house in these surroundings) and neither he nor Frank had any desire to spend the afternoon cooped up in a stuffy theatre, but the walk would be pleasant and they could do some shopping … yes, they would go to Inverdrum.

  “I must get some socks,” said Roy. “Mine have all gone into holes.”

  “I want some handkerchiefs,” added Frank.

  The inn-keeper was so delighted to find that his suggestion was acceptable that he put on his hat and wound a scarf round his neck and accompanied them for part of the way to point out the path. He was a garrulous soul and anxious to do the honours of his country-side to these pleasant-spoken young gentlemen. He told them the names of all the hills and mountains in the vicinity and enlarged upon the historical associations. Then he left them and returned to the hotel and the two young gentlemen walked on. Unfortunately, however, the inn-keeper’s directions as to how they were to continue were so detailed and so elaborate that they defeated their object, and when Roy and Frank had walked hard for an hour and a half and there were still no signs of the “fine wee town” they came to the conclusion that they were lost. They did not mind much for the hill was a pleasant place to wander, and the air was soft and clear and fragrant. There was no sound save the sudden cry of a bird and the tinkling of water … water running everywhere. It ran in small rocky channels or hidden between overhanging banks of green grass. There was withered brown heather; there were outcrops of rock; there were bushes of bog myrtle and an occasional bush of gorse with blazing golden flowers. Here and there they came upon treacherous patches of moss, some of it brilliantly green and some of it pale pink like the inside of a seashell. There were a good many sheep about, and presently they saw a shepherd wending his way up the hill, so they shouted to him and inquired which way they should go, and how far it was to Inverdrum, and he shouted back to them that they were, “just there, almost,” and signalled to them to continue round the shoulder of the hill.…

  “Gosh, it’s magnificent!” exclaimed Roy, sitting down suddenly upon a boulder. “Look at it,” he added, “look at it, Frank!”

  It was a magnificent view. The hill stretched steeply down to the shores of a big sea loch—a wide expanse of blue water which curved away between the green hills and brown mountains until it was lost to sight. The sun was dipping down into a bank of rosy clouds and the eastern slopes of the hills were faintly shadowed. Below them and a little westwards lay the town which they had been seeking, it was built on the shores of a bay and was sheltered from the winds by rocky promontories. The houses were close upon the edge of the loch, and the waterfront was built up from sea-level with old grey weatherbeaten buildings which looked as if they had been there from time immemorial. A pier ran out into the water, and there was a church spire with a clock; the remainder of the town consisted of small grey houses and winding streets and one or two villas in patches of green garden. To Frank the place looked like a wood-cut from the fairy tale—it had an other-wordly air—and Roy put this feeling into words when he inquired suddenly in a puzzled voice:

  “Shall we be able to buy socks there … and handkerchiefs?”

  “No,” said Frank, half laughing and half in earnest, “no, Roy, we shall only be able to buy ingredients for a fairy’s spell …”

  “There isn’t a picture house,” declared Roy, “no, there can’t be. That’s too much for anyone to believe … Fancy sitting and seeing Laurel and Hardy, or Greta Garbo and then coming out into the middle of this,” he added, waving his arms as he spoke.

  “How peaceful it is!” Frank said, in a wondering tone. “How lovely and quiet and peaceful. You could be happy here for ever and ever, I think.”

  They looked at the scene for a little longer and then went down the hill towards the little town and entered it through an old, half-crumbled archway. The streets were paved with cobbles and their footsteps sounded loud in their ears after the soft ground of the hill. The main street curved upwards from the pier and was lined on either side by tiny shops with strange assortments of goods in the windows. In one shop, for instance, you could buy fishing rods and lines and sinkers, neckties, tartan scarves, picture-postcards, rubber boots, anti-midge lotion, walking sticks and umbrellas, Penguin novels, radio sets, or silver brooches set with cairngorms. You could also have your hair cut and your shoes soled and heeled. Unfortunately Frank and Roy wanted none of these things, they wanted socks and handkerchiefs, and these useful necessities of life were not to be had. They went farther up the street and presently came to a newsagent’s shop which was also a post-office. A little group of people were standing outside the door and it seemed to Roy that they were discussing some subject of importance. Several of them had newspapers in their hands and were holding them up and reading them with more than ordinary interest.

  “I say, Frank!” began Roy, but Frank had stopped suddenly and was pointing to the poster which was propped up outside the newsagent’s door. It was printed in large black letters and announced baldly, “HITLER MARCHES INTO PRAGUE.”

  “Hitler marches into Prague!” exclaimed Frank in a horrified tone, “Roy—Roy it can’t be true!”

  Roy looked at it—and blinked—and looked again. “Gosh!” he said, “Gosh … we’d better get a paper.”

  It was easier said than done, for the papers had been sold out on arrival, but a middle-aged man, who was standing near the door, noticed the dismay on Frank’s face and offered him his own paper.

  “I have read it,” he said, in his soft Highland voice. “There isn’t much in it at all, and if I want I can see my brother’s paper. It is bad news, isn’t it?”

  The news had come upon Frank with such an appalling blow that he was almost stunned. He took the paper, and, without a word of thanks to the donor, he turned on his heel and left the shop.

  “Thank you very much,” said Roy, trying to make up for the rudeness of his friend. “Thank you—it’s awfully kind of you. He isn’t usually like that.”

  The man smiled. “It’s all right,” he said, “it doesn’t matter. He got a shock—I could see that. Will it be war now, do you think?”

  “Heaven knows!” said Roy.

  “It will be war,” said another man in a confident tone. “I shall be away to Oban tomorrow.”

  “He is a reservist,” explained the first man. “He is in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. I am a fisherman and they will want me, too.”

  “I am in the Navy,” said Roy.

  “Is that so?” inquired the fisherman with interest. “You will be having the first crack at them, then … but I will be needed, too, for I have a stout sea-going boat.…”

  “And your friend?” pu
t in the reservist, “is he a naval man, too?”

  “No,” said Roy. “No, as a matter of fact, he’s … but I think I’d better go after him … and see what he’s doing.”

  He tore himself away and ran down the street after Frank.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Frank was walking along reading the paper as he went, and Roy soon caught up with him. They walked in silence out of the little town and up the hill. When they reached the top, Roy paused and looked back. The sun had set but the spring twilight was very clear, the sky was lemon and palest green with a purple scarf of cloud low on the horizon. The little town was dark save for a few pinpoints of amber light in the windows of the houses, but the loch still shimmered as if it had absorbed some of the departing daylight and was giving it out again. On the hill and amongst the scattered rocks, bushes of gorse which had blazed like living gold in the sunshine were mere ghosts.

  Frank had walked on, and again Roy ran after him. He had not spoken once and Roy had a feeling that Frank did not know he was with him—or perhaps did not care. Roy was quite frightened about Frank for it was so unlike him to be inconsiderate and unsociable and he was almost afraid to speak to him for he did not know what to say. At last, however, he could bear the silence no longer and he called to him to stop, and Frank stopped and waited for him to come.

  “Frank!” said Roy. “Frank, it’s no good dashing on like that. We can’t do anything tonight.”

  “We can’t do anything at all,” said Frank, hopelessly, and Roy saw that his face was drawn and haggard with the intensity of his feelings.

  “No,” said Roy, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact voice. “No, we can’t do anything tonight so it’s no use racing on like that.”

  “It’s true, I suppose?” inquired Frank anxiously. “I suppose it couldn’t be a mistake, Roy?”

  Roy hesitated. “I’m afraid it’s true,” he said, “I’m afraid there isn’t much doubt about it, old chap.”