Mrs. Tim of the Regiment (40 page)

‘I wish we had seen a kelpie,' says Betty, with a sigh, as she hands in her plate for a second helping.

Guthrie looks across the table at her with a grave face. ‘There aren't any to see. There are no such things as kelpies, Betty, so don't you go looking for them any more.'

‘But you told me – ' says Betty.

‘I know – but it was all nonsense,' Guthrie replies. ‘I shouldn't have told you – it was just made up.'

‘No kelpies!' says Betty, her lip quivering.

‘No kelpies!' replies Guthrie firmly.

‘But we can have stories about kelpies, can't we?'

‘Och, let the child be!' whispers Mrs. Loudon.

‘No,' says Guthrie firmly. ‘I made up my mind that if we found her safely – I mean I made up my mind out there on the moor that I wouldn't tell Betty anything that wasn't true – never again – and I mean to stick to it. If Betty wants stories we can have stories about dogs, or – or elephants, or something – '

Betty looks at him, and he looks at Betty, gravely, seriously; and it seems to me that in spite of Betty's youth she understands a little of what Guthrie has gone through. Something precious has come into being between those two, something deeper and far more lasting than their former irresponsible friendship.

‘I think,' says Mrs. Loudon suddenly. ‘I think it would be a good plan if we all went over to Inverquill this afternoon, to the pictures; it would take our minds off – '

‘What about our expedition?' says Tony, looking at me persuasively.

‘Goodness me, I'd forgotten all about it!' exclaims Mrs. Loudon. ‘It's not too late for you to start now. Away with you before the day's any older.'

I feel that I would really rather stay with Betty, but can think of no excuse that does not sound foolish. Betty will be perfectly safe and happy to go to the picture house at Inverquill with the others. While I am still wondering what to say, the whole thing is settled – Mrs. Loudon is an adept at arranging other people's affairs, and has a strange compelling force. I can't explain it except by saying that you find yourself carrying out her behests without intending to do so.

Tony and I are hustled off without more ado, and are soon tucked up in the Bentley and flying along the moorland roads like the wind. The day is all golden now, bright golden sunshine pours down from the sky dappled with soft clouds.

‘You don't mind going fast?' Tony says suddenly. ‘We haven't much time, and it would be rather nice to bathe, wouldn't it?'

I agree that it would be lovely. I don't mind going fast with Tony; he is one of those born drivers who give you a feeling of complete safety however fast they go.

He says no more, but fixes his attention on the road. His profile, only, is visible to me as I turn my head in his direction. There – is something stern and sad about this view of his face the straight nose, and the straight lips, compressed into a thin line with the concentration of his thoughts. I realise how little I know about Tony. I know him so well in some ways, but the inward Tony is a mysterious creature; kind and impish, sorrowful and gay by turns, and the mainspring of these changing moods is hidden deep.

The car flies on, over moors, through forests, past lochs which sleep peacefully in the sun; now it lifts over the shoulder of a hill, now it winds along by the side of a river. We seem to have been travelling for hours.

We climb a long, steep hill, and stop for a moment at the top. Far below us lies the sea, shimmering in the sunlit mist. It holds my eyes to the exclusion of all else as the sea always must. The sun is piercing the mist with golden beams, making it opalescent as a rainbow. These shafts of sunlight make pools of light upon the gently heaving bosom of the sea.

Now we are running slowly down the hill to the sea's edge: to our left is a pile of rocks, capped by green turf and a cluster of fir trees; it thrusts its feet out into the sea, sheltering a little bay where the sand is silvery white. Turf of emerald brightness, starred with tiny flowers, edges the bay, and stretches back to the hills, where the young larches stand in patterns of pale green flame against the smoky shadows of the pines. The sea is trembling as the mist lifts and eddies, the gleaming patches of sunlight spread and merge, and their surface is ruffled by a faint breeze from the west. Far off, and blue in the haze, float the tall forms of islands, some rugged and sterile, others crowded with trees to the water's edge. Just at our feet a spit of silvery sand runs out into the shimmering water. It is crowned with reeds which rustle gently in the faintly stirring air. The whole scene is fairy-like in quality, there is something unearthly in its soft beauty, in its stillness, and the delicacy of its colouring; every shade of colour, from the silvery whiteness of the sand to the darkest shadows of the pines is caught and blended into a perfect whole.

‘This is my favourite bay,' says Tony softly. ‘Shall we bathe here?'

‘I can't believe the sea is real enough to bathe in.'

‘Oh, it's quite wet, I assure you. There's rather a nice little sandy cave amongst the rocks where you can undress.'

He takes our two bundles out of the car and leads the way. I follow in a kind of dream – it is too beautiful to be real.

The sandy cave is a delightful place; it has little pink flowers in its crevices, and tall pine trees leaning over the top. I undress in comfort, and don my bathing suit with the scent of the pines in my nostrils and the murmur of their foliage in my ears.

Tony is waiting for me on the rocks. He has been in already, and his fair hair is streaked with wetness, and shining with little drops of water.

‘Come on,' he says, smiling happily. ‘It's cold at first, but glorious – '

The water is almost still. It is very green, and so clear that the sand at the bottom is clearly visible, and a shoal of tiny fish, some silver and red, dart in and out of the gently moving seaweed. We plunge in off the rocks. I let myself sink down to the bottom, and then spring up to the surface for a breath of air.

The sun is quite warm now. We sit dripping on the shore, and watch the seagulls diving for fish out amongst the fairy islands.

‘Do you like it, Hester?' Tony asks.

‘I like it so much I can't talk about it. It's perfect. I should like to live here always, and sleep in the little cave, and watch the dawn break over the hills, and the sun set in the sea behind the islands.'

We slip back once more into the clear water, and become part of its radiant life. It is so easy to float on its cool surface, to turn over like a lazy porpoise, and feel the salty buoyancy of its embrace. The waves are small and timid; they creep along the base of the rocks and fall with tiny splashes upon the white sand of the bay.

I dress in a leisurely manner, and feel the glorious heat rushing through my body and tingling in every nerve.

‘Hurry up, Hester,' shouts Tony. ‘Are you dressing for a Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace, or have you lost the feminine equivalent of a collar stud in the sand?'

– ‘I've lost nothing except about ten years,' I reply, emerging from my lair, and wringing out my bathing suit.

‘So you have,' agrees Tony, looking at me in what I feel to be a peculiar manner. ‘You aren't a day older than Betty. I've always thought seven was the most attractive age.'

I beseech him not to be foolish, and he replies that he will give the matter his attention. By this time we have stowed the wet bathing suits and the sandy towels in the car, and are walking up the hill to visit the farm. I find it impossible to talk. There is too much to see, and I want to remember it all – every smallest detail – so that I may store it forever in ‘that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude'. Look where you will, a different kind of country opens up before you. Here, in the space of half a mile, you have the sea with its rocks and sands, and innocent shimmer of scarcely moving water; the pinewoods, close and tightly packed together, their foliage like drifts of green smoke above their straight boles; the delicate green of birch and larch; the meadow land, all starred with tiny flowers; and the patchwork quilt of fields spread upon the sloping hills. From the bosom of a meadowy hill, a strong young burn leaps out and rushes seaward; a little wooden bridge carries the path across the water and sets it on its way. There is a wooden rail – grey with age, and yellow with lichen – which we lean upon, watching the silver wave of water as it meets the rocks in its bed, and parts to squeeze between them, or spreads over their rounded surfaces like a fan of clear brown wine.

The little white croft upon the hill is sheltered from the north by a grove of trees. In front is a cobbled yard, and a large green tub of rain water stands by the door. A faint reek of peat smoke rises from the chimney and fills the air with its attractive smell.

‘Hullo, hullo! Are you there, Alec?' shouts Tony as we approach.

The door flies open, and a man appears, a tall, broad-shouldered man. He has the brown weather-beaten face and far-sighted eyes of one who spends his time upon the sea, and the earth-engrained hands of a farmer – for Alec is both.

‘Och, Major!' he cried. ‘Is it yourself ? It's welcome you are.'

They shake hands firmly. ‘Och, well now!' he says, beaming with happiness. ‘This is a fery good day.'

Tony now introduces me, and I am included in the welcome. ‘Och, indeed now I would be remembering the captain (or will he be major now?), and it's a proud day for me to be welcoming his lady to my home.'

‘Oh, of course,' Tony says. ‘I'd forgotten you had met Tim Christie.'

‘But
I
had not forgotten,' Alec replies, with a smile. ‘It would be a strange thing if I would not be remembering
him
, for we were all together in the worst place I ever was in.'

‘That farm near Festubert,' puts in Tony. ‘Yes, it was a tight place. Tim Christie was there, was he?'

‘He was indeed,' nods Alec. ‘I could be telling you at this moment all the people that were there. Perhaps I have more time for remembering than other people, for when I am out at night in my boat at the fishing I will be thinking again about all the things we would be doing at that time, and all the good times we would be having – for there were good times as well as bad.'

‘We didn't have much of a time at that farm,' says Tony grimly.

‘Och well, and I don't know, Major. I wouldn't have missed it now; for it's a grand thing to be thinking about it all, and you safe in your bed, or sitting by the fire, and the wind roaring round. There's times I feel sorry for the young men who are knowing nothing of it all, for it's half alive they are, and not knowing their luck to be that.'

‘That's one way of looking at the war!'

‘Och well, it's my way,' he says. ‘I would often be thinking of the adventure of it all, and the foreign lands, and the strange things that I would be seeing those times – '

‘That German soldier you met in the communication trench, for instance,' suggests Tony smiling.

‘That one,' says Alec with an answering grin. ‘It was a funny thing that. We were both of us frightened of the other one, not expecting to meet each other in that place. A young man he was, with a pleasant face – och, I'd like fine to be meeting him now, that one, and standing him a drink and laughing over the pair of us crawling along that place and bumping into each other – and we scared to death! But what am I doing to be keeping you standing out here? If you would be coming into my house – '

We follow him into the tiny living room, which is spotlessly clean and shining. The walls are whitewashed, and a kettle is singing on the open fire. A small child of about four years old is playing on the hearthrug with a battered wooden train; he gives one loud shriek when he sees us and flies for his life.

‘Mrs. Christie must forgive him,' Alec says, setting chairs for us. ‘He sees nobody here, and he is shy. It is a lonely place and – '

‘I suppose you will want another war for him in twenty years or so,' suggests Tony.

‘The Major would be laughing at me,' replies Alec, smiling. ‘But no, I would be wanting no war for him. It is only that I am glad now there was one for me. I was not glad at the time, no, not altogether glad. Wars are bad things, and we want no more of them – but there is good in them for the lucky ones.'

‘I believe you are right,' says Tony gravely.

Mrs. Macdonald now appears, and greets us shyly. She is a pretty young woman with dark hair and quiet eyes. Alec enquires after his son, somewhat anxiously.

‘He will have gone to speak to the pig,' replies his mother lightly. ‘There is no need whatever to be troubling ourselves about that one.'

So we cease to trouble ourselves about young Macdonald, who has bad taste to prefer the pig's conversation to ours, and settle down to a comfortable chat. I am amazed to find my host so well-informed as to affairs. These people are far from civilisation, and cut off from the outer world, yet, in spite of this, Alec can hold his own with Tony, and gives his opinion on current topics – holding to his opinion with respectful firmness when Tony differs from him. They discuss the effect of tariffs, unemployment, and disarmament, while Mrs. Macdonald makes tea, and sets out large plates of scones and crisp homemade oatcakes on a snowy cloth. When all is ready the younger Alec is retrieved from the pigsty, and placed upon a high wooden chair to have his tea. But the tears roll down his cheeks whenever he looks at us, and at last I can bear it no longer and beseech his parents to take pity on him. ‘Couldn't he have his tea somewhere else?' I suggest.