The Stranger Came (19 page)

The
half-dozen
who
had
put
in
an
appearance
for
this
routine
business
meeting,
barely
enough
to
make
them
quorate,
sank
in
their
seats
as
the
old
man
worked
his
way
into
the
Sixties.
Lucy
sensed
Maitland's
satisfaction
as
the
pencils
doodled.
He
had
amused
her
with
mimicries
of
Julian
prefacing
discussions
with
an
historical
survey;
any
potential
opposition
tended
to
be
numbed
into
acquiescence.

Even
Henney
Low's
doubts
took
their
foreseen
course.

'Last
year's
muddle
over
the
student
fellowship
did
the
Trust's
image
no
good,'
Maitland
reminded
him.
'It
wouldn't
have
happened
if
May
hadn't
been
off
ill,
of
course,'
Mrs
Stewart
raised
her
head
from
the
minutes
in
acknowledgement,
'but
it
does
suggest
a
need
which
it's
time
we
met.’

'Even
so
...
What
quality
of
person
are
we
likely
to
get for
what
we
can
afford
to
pay?'

Not
only
Henney
Low
was
upset
when
it
transpired
the
discussion
was
to
be
supplied
with
a
candidate
for
the
post

O
nly
one
–
and
that
he
was
waiting
outside.
None
of them,
however,
when
it
came
to
a
decision
was
obdurate
enough
to
refuse.
The
Trust
was
one
among
many
interests.
They
were
busy
men.
It
was
that
time
of
the
afternoon
when
everyone
was
hungry
and
looking
forward
to
dinner.

When
Monty
Norman
came
into
the
room
for
the
second
time,
it
was
to
be
told
the
decision
had
been
made.

Everything
was
working
out
well
for
him.
Without effort,
it
seemed,
he
had
been
provided
with
a
job.
Why
was
it
then,
Lucy
wondered,
that
he
was
so
full
of
anger
against
Maitland?
She
knew
that
was
so,
even
if
for
some
reason
no
one
else
saw
it
and
even
though
she
could
not
have
explained
how
she
knew.

Chapter
6

On
the
Friday
morning,
she
was
enormously,
inexplicably
weary.
Even
to
lift
the
coffee
cup
to
her
lips
was
an
effort.
She
sat
at
the
table
in
the
kitchen
watching
the
heavy
clouds
sink
down
and
shroud
the
mountain
summits.
The
muscles
of
her
sides
ached
and
her
legs
were
heavy.
It
was
as
if
she
had
been
worked
unendurably
hard,
and
there
was
no
reason
for
it.
On
impulse
it
was
true
she
had
gone
into
Edinburgh
the
day
before,
and
that
made
her
third
visit
of
the
week.
Once
there,
though,
she
had
done
nothing
but
wander
around
and
come
home
again.

Such
a
waste
of
time;
she
wasn't
the
kind
of
person
who
filled
the
empty
days
by
running
off
to
town, three
times
in
a
week,
that
was
trivial.
What
was
the
matter
with
her?
It
was
ridiculous
to
be
so
tired.
She
stretched
her
neck
and
sighed.
It
was
the
life
she
led.
She
was
living
the
life
of
an
old
woman.

Listlessly
she
contemplated
visiting
Janet.
There
was
a time
when
that
would
have
been
part
of
her
routine,
but
it
had
been
weeks
since
they
had
spoken.
You
couldn't
count
an
exchange
in
the
shop
or
a
greeting
called
from
a
car.
Then
there
had
been
the
affair
of
the
Sinclairs'
party
a
month
ago,
after
which
a
week
had
passed
before
her
reappearance
on
the
village
street
wearing
dark
glasses
which
did
not
hide
the
bruise
yellowing
about
her
eye.
Poor
Janet!

Lucy
sighed,
took
a
mouthful
of
coffee
and
made
a
face.

Neglected
it
had
gone
cold.
A
real
friend
went
in
even when
she
was
unwelcome.
After
all
it
was
herself
she
had
not
wished
to
embarrass.
She
would
visit
Janet.

Like
themselves,
Janet
and
Ewen
were
incomers,
but that
would
not
in
itself
have
drawn
them
to
the
younger
couple
since
the
village
was
just
near
enough
to
act
in
part
as
a
dormitory
for
the
city.

'We
have
the
rich,'
Maitland
would
explain,
'a
surgeon, a
naval
gent,
a
handful
of
company
directors
(one
of
whom
is
teetering
on
the
verge
of
going
broke
our
local
bank
manager
tells
me –
in
strictest
confidence,
naturally), and
they
live
behind
walls
or
formidable
hedges
on
the
hill
above
the
village.
The
poor
cluster
below
it
in
council
houses
round
the
older
of
the
two
churches.
There's
something
satisfying
about
having
your
class
structure
tidily
analogous
to
the
geography.’

More
recently
on
the
fields
to
the
east
there
had
been
a development
of
large
bungalows
on
small
feus
for
supermarket
managers
and
young
accountants,
a
vet's
widow,
people
like
that.
Like
the
Ures,
Janet
and
Ewen
Hayes
were
fortunate
enough
to
live
in
the
real
village,
on
the
straggling
street
which
was
the
only
one
with
any
history
to
it.
In
the
tiny
pub
beside
the
old
manse
house,
Maitland
would
enjoy
his
occasional
pint
with
farm
labourers,
a
retired
shepherd
who
had
given
up
a
job
as
a
teacher
after
the
war,
Gordon
who
had
sold
the
family
printing
business
in
Glasgow
after
his
father's
death
and
was
drinking
his
way
through
the
proceeds,
Peter
who
owned
the
garage,
a
real
cross-section.
When
Hugh
talked
about
modernising
the
place
to
attract
passing
trade,
Maitland
would
tell
him
he
did
not
know
the
value
of
what
he
already
had.

Glancing
in
through
the
gap
in
the
curtained
window
she
had
a
glimpse
of
the
half-dozen
regulars
already
crowding
the
taproom.
All
of
them
men,
of
course;
it
was
that
kind
of
pub.
Perhaps
that
was
what
Maitland
meant
when
he
called
it
valuable.
She
smiled
to
herself
and
was
surprised
to
find
the
doctor's
wife
smiling
back
as
she
hurried
past.

In
the
dry
morning
light
the
village
was
sharp-cornered, cold
and
clean.
There
was
no
wind
and
it
looked
as
if
the
rain
clouds
might
stay
where
they
were,
resting
on
the
mountain
summits
across
the
strath.
She
went
on
the
sunny
side
past
the
post
office
and
the
old
tearoom
now
a
Pakistani
grocer's,
and
by
the
time
she
came
to
the
terrace
of
cottages,
three
of
which
had
been
knocked
together
by
Ewen
Hayes,
she
was
feeling
better.
The
walk
had
done
her
good.