A Song of Sixpence (16 page)

‘Shall we dig it up?'

‘Decidedly not. But we'll take one raceme for pressing.' And she snipped off a single stem which, rather to my surprise since I had decided not to co-operate, I accepted and tucked away in the vasculum.

We proceeded for some minutes without incident, then she stepped again.

‘Here is something rather striking. The round-leafed sundew.
Drosera rotundifolia.
'

As I gazed questioningly at the graceful little rosette, she went on.

‘Each leaf, as you see, bears several rows of crimson hairs, terminating in rounded heads, like a sea-anemone's tentacles. Indeed they serve a similar purpose. They secrete a clear sticky fluid which entraps small insects crawling over the leaf. Their efforts to free themselves irritate the hairs which bend over the insect so that it is secured, digested and assimilated by the plant.'

‘I say!' I exclaimed, in a tone of wonder. ‘A fly-eating plant!'

‘Precisely. We shall dig this one up—I have no love for the sundews—plant it in peat moss and you may observe it in action at home.'

‘May I really, Miss Greville?'

‘Why not?'

She allowed me to wield the trowel taken from the vasculum and, when the plant was safely stowed, made a gesture of liberation.

‘Now that you're launched, Carroll, you may go off on your own. Call me if you find anything that looks exciting.'

I started off, with a willingness I would not have believed possible, eager to demonstrate my tracker's skill. To my chagrin; although Miss Greville seemed to be having success, my untrained eyes found nothing. But at last, suddenly, I stumbled on a splendid bloom, starting up from amongst the withered grass, big as a hyacinth and of a deep growing purple.

‘Quick, Miss Greville,' I shouted. ‘Please come quickly.'

She came.

‘Do look, Miss Greville. Isn't it a beauty?'

She made a generous gesture of assent.

‘The
Orehis maculata.
Tubers palmate, bracts green, three-nerved. A first-rate specimen. I congratulate you, Carroll. If only we can find its neighbour, the
morio
, we may count ourselves fortunate.'

I blushed with pride, watching as she carefully snipped two flowers from the spiky stem and, with some other specimens she had collected, permitted me to stow them away.

We were now in a grassy saucer of the moor, probably an old sheep dip, sheltered on one side by a marbled ridge of rock. She glanced upwards. The pale sun was now directly overhead.

‘Does this strike you as a suitable spot for lunch, Carroll?'

I immediately approved the terrain.

‘Then see what Campbell has given us.'

I unpacked the knapsack, reverently handling the damp napkin-wrapped packages, noting with enthusiasm that several home-made sausage rolls were included. Finally, tucked in beside the flask of coffee, a splendid bottle, of Comries lemonade was revealed. This foresight touched me so acutely that involuntarily I exclaimed.

‘Oh, Miss Greville, you are terribly kind.'

‘Campbell,' she replied calmly.

‘But Campbell does not like me.'

‘Campbell does not show her feelings.'

‘But Miss Greville, Campbell does not answer when I speak to her.'

‘Campbell is not naturally predisposed to conversation. Besides, she is rather deaf.'

With Campbell disposed of, we began lunch. As this exceeded my expectation I ate a great deal, an indulgence made possible by the fact that Miss Greville herself appeared rather indifferent towards the sausage rolls. She had removed her hat and, sitting erect with closed eyes and that faint withdrawn smile, had surrendered herself to the spirits of the moor. From time to time, while eating steadily, I gazed at her with awe. The wind was singing in the heather, overhead curlews were circling and calling against the blue sky. No other sound but the faint hum of an early bee.

‘May I tell you something, Miss Greville?' I ventured, taking up the last egg-and-cress sandwich. ‘I think I am going to like doing botany very much.'

Imperturbably, she inclined her head.

‘Then we shall do some more presently. We still have to find an
Orchis morio
to match your
maculata.
'

After we had rested for a while we started off again, not deeper into the moor, but across, towards the road. Charged with botanical ardour. I surpassed myself. We found the
morio
orchid, and specimens of bog myrtle, yellow pimpernel and St John's wort, for all of which Miss Greville knew the Latin names. She also showed me a lapwing's nest with four eggs, and a bed of whortleberry shrubs that in a few weeks would yield us fruit.

The afternoon was fading into an umbered haze as at last we struck the road. But now, though long, it was all downhill. My legs were tired but my chest felt full of fresh air. This inflation and an intoxicating sense of achievement supported me during an unexpected encounter—which otherwise might have unnerved me—with Mr Lesly, the vicar of St Jude's, Miss Greville's church. Although I felt myself automatically suspect by all clergymen of denominations other than my own, this was a pleasant man to whom, when questioned, I identified myself as a Papist in a manner Miss Greville subsequently commended.

‘Mr Lesly is exceptionally gifted. Broad-minded too.' She continued in the same strain of praise. ‘And of course, Carroll, we Catholics at St Jude's are in many respects in accord with you Romans, although naturally celibacy is not imposed on our clergy.'

After that we were soon home. With effusive thanks I parted from Miss Greville and dashed upstairs with the vasculum.

‘I've had such a time, Mother. I found a rare orchid. We got a plant that actually eats flies, and all sorts of other specimens. Miss Greville's going to show me how to mount them, and to cut sections too, for her microscope.'

She was seated at the table, adding figures on a sheet of paper. As she raised her head, her expression remained so preoccupied that I called out:

‘Mother, what's wrong? Didn't you hear me?'

She recovered herself immediately.

‘Yes, dear, of course I did.' Drawing me towards her she held me tight. ‘And what fine red cheeks it's given you. Now sit beside me, very close, and tell me all about it.'

During that spring and summer I spent entrancing hours of happiness and well-being on the moors, sometimes with Miss Greville, more often alone. My passion for natural history had at least the merit of improving my health. Or perhaps this was due to the light dumbbells Miss Greville had placed in my room and those morning cold baths which, though Mother demurred, I now persistently endured under the admonitions of my patroness who, with compelling instances of the austerities endured by runners training for Olympia, continued to fire me with the Greek ideal.

‘You have not been endowed with too remarkable an anatomy, Carroll. You must make the most of it.'

While no visible muscular bulges appeared, and it was mortifying when Miss Greville sought vainly for the first sign of my biceps, nevertheless, I did at last begin to grow. And beyond this, I became absurdly expert in moorland lore. I knew, and had found, practically every wild flower between Ardfillan and Glen Fruin, could spot the subtle difference between a Cinquefoil and a Tormentil and, when I wanted to show off, could even cut and stain sections to demonstrate to Mother on Miss Greville's ancient Zeiss microscope.

My solitary wanderings through the heather had failed to afford me my greatest wish, the congenial companionship of someone my own age, but they had brought me, incredibly, the friendship of that spectre of my early childhood, a gamekeeper. After a painful introduction when, observing my figure against the horizon, keeper John Mackenzie had come striding in pursuit to charge me with ‘berrying' grouse eggs, the contents of my vasculum had partially reassured him, and the botanical jargon which I gabbled in excuse probably convinced him that he was dealing with an oddity. On subsequent occasions, watching through his stalker's telescope, he must have assured himself of my innocence and took occasion to meet up with me, to sound me out and, when later on he found me useful in locating outlying nests for him, to have a companionable chat. As keeper for Glen Fruin his task was to provide a maximum of birds for the twelfth of August. I think in the end I earned his respect for he took trouble to tell me many interesting things about his work, which provided me with stimulating topics for my lunchtime conversations with Miss Greville.

‘Do you know something. Miss Greville?' I would begin, having sampled with relish my first spoonful of a red soup which was apparently called
borscht.

‘I know a great many things, Carroll, to which of these do you refer?'

‘Grouse, Miss Greville.'

‘Yes,' she replied meditatively. ‘I am fairly familiar with that bird, both on and off the table. My poor father shot a great many of them on the Yorkshire moors.'

‘But do you know, Miss Greville, that when the young bird flies only five days after hatching it couldn't exist without two things?'

‘The young green shoots of the heather?' she suggested.

‘And?'

She shook her head.

‘Midges!' I exclaimed.

She looked up from her soup.

‘Good heavens, Carroll. You startle me.'

‘I thought I should,' I said triumphantly. ‘ That's one of the reasons the old rooty heather must be burned off, and the damp patches kept on the moor as a breeding ground for the protein-rich insects.' I was rather proud of that word ‘protein'—Mr Mackenzie was quite a learned man. ‘Water is needed too, Miss Greville. The hen bird drinks a lot when she's sitting. Of course the sheep are Mr Mackenzie's greatest curse, he's always counting them.'

‘Does he sleep badly?' she inquired blandly.

‘Oh, not that, Miss Greville. The sheep grazing on the moor. Only a certain number are supposed to be allowed and they eat the young heather day and night. They're worse than the hooded crows. They never lose their appetite.'

She at last allowed herself to smile.

‘Well, I'm glad you haven't lost yours. Have some more soup.'

In these adventures, I should have been happy all through the long school holidays but for the change, that suddenly became apparent to me, in my mother. Because I loved and trusted her best in the world, I had always taken her for granted, and I had imagined that she had ‘got over' Father's death. Nor could I guess what deprivation she endured beyond the loss of Father's companionship and support. Absorbed in my own pursuits, I had barely noticed her lost look when she returned from Winton in the evening, or how at times she would sit, her gaze detached, a finger pressed against her cheek, her lips moving slightly, as though she were talking to herself.

‘Come, Grace,' Miss Greville would remonstrate, making a sudden appearance upstairs. ‘This melancholy moping won't do at all. You must come down to me. Miss Gilbraith and Alice Charteris have called and we're going to have music.'

‘I'm rather tired,' Mother would say, ‘and don't really feel like it. You'll manage very well without me.'

‘Nonsense, dear Grace. We all want you. And it will do you a world of good.'

These friends of Miss Greville's were mistresses at St Anne's, desirable in every way, and when she yielded to persuasion, these musical evenings did take Mother out of herself.

Yet there were responsibilities of which I realized nothing, that could not be relieved by a Haydn quartet. To me it seemed simple and natural that Mother should have taken over Father's business. Everything was settled, going well, and would continue as before. Not a breath of financial stress was in the air.

One evening the post brought a letter for Mother, an event unusual enough for me to wait expectantly while she opened and read it. Suddenly I heard her gasp, saw her press a hand to her forehead.

‘Oh, dear,' she exclaimed, in a pained voice. ‘This is too bad.'

‘What is, Mother?'

Overcome, she sat down, holding the letter.

‘Your Uncle Bernard has sent me the bill.' Mother was almost incoherent, but I saw that she must speak to me. ‘Before your father died he told me he wanted, yes, insisted on a simple burial. But Uncle Bernard would not have it. He took all the responsibility. So we had all these unnecessary, hateful, expensive trappings. And now the unpaid bill, that I thought was settled long ago, has come to me, with the threat of a summons.'

‘Is it much?'

‘Terribly much.'

I felt myself go hot all over with indignation.

‘He must pay it. He promised he would. I heard him say so.'

Mother was reading the letter again.

‘He says he can't. That they've condemned his property, that he owes other people, that he's very hard pressed.'

‘What a beastly thing to do. Mother, he must be a … a perfect cad.' This was a word I had learned from Miss Greville, and was in this case entirely misapplied. My Uncle Bernard was a soft, muddled, impracticable, self-indulgent man, always in debt and skirting the edge of disaster yet somehow managing to live well and to do well for his children. Moreover, like others of his sort, he was full of good intentions. His fulsome promises and extravagant ideas of doing good were genuine. Not only did he believe at the time that he would fulfil them but often, by a sort of hallucination, became firmly convinced that he had done so. Perhaps Mother felt this, for she sighed.

‘He meant well, I suppose, and I daresay he hasn't the money. He says he may have to go bankrupt. His affairs are in a bad way.'

‘He always seems to be going bankrupt, Mother.' I was still unforgiving. ‘And doing very nicely out of it, with lots of good food and fine clothes, and all sorts of comforts, like we saw at the funeral.'

‘Some people live like that, dear. Anyway, it is my responsibility, I'll settle it at once.' Mother spoke slowly, and she added, to herself: ‘My poor Conor, there will be no mean squabble over your grave.'