A Song of Sixpence (6 page)

Silence. Lady Whalebone's gaze, passing from one to the other, had come to rest on me and in her eyes I saw a fateful recognition. Finally she put on her pince-nez, suspended from her neck by a fine gold chain, and studied the card.

‘Hagemann's Royal Dutch Yeast.' Her eyes again sought mine. ‘A close relation of the staff of life.'

‘Yes, madam,' Father acknowledged with the modesty and assurance of one who has made his case good. Standing easily, almost playfully, he was quite unconscious of the mysterious yet steady drip, drip of water which was already forming a sizeable pool exactly between his feet. My heart sank. Had
she
seen it? And what in heaven's name would she make of it?

‘So your partner is interested in orchids.' She meditated. ‘I thocht the Dutch grew only tulips.'

‘Certainly, tulips, m'am. Fields of them. But orchids also.'

The ghost of a smile playing around Lady Meikle's lips gave me hope. Alas, it was illusory.

‘Come awa' then.' She spoke with decision. ‘I'll show ye my collection and ye can tell your fancy Mynheer all about it.'

‘But m'am, I only hoped for an appointment,' Father protested. ‘We could not think of deranging you
on a Sunday.
'

‘The better the day, my dear sir, the better the deed. Indeed, I insist. I'm rather interested to jalouse how both of the two of ye will react to my orchids.'

Father, for the first time, looked thoroughly taken aback, at a loss for words. But there was no escape. We were led by our cicerone up the avenue, along the terrace that fronted the imposing mansion and into the conservatory, a great high Victorian erection of glass and ornate white-painted ironwork that adjoined the far wing of the house. We entered this crystal palace through double glass doors that were closed carefully behind us and, greeted by a waft of humid air, were immediately in the tropics. Towering palms rose to the high roof mingling with giant ferns spreading enormous fronds far above my head, banana trees with bunched fingers of miniature fruits, strange twining creepers, spiky yuccas, great lily pads the size of tea-trays floating on a pool, masses of luscious greenery of which I could not even guess the names, and amongst all this, coloured wickedly, gleaming like brilliant jungle birds, the orchids.

In my normal state how ravished I would have been by this gorgeous materialization of so many of my dreams. Even now my anxiety was half forgotten. I gazed in wonder, dreamily following our guide as, in a manner which had turned discursive, even pleasant, she demonstrated her specimens to Father. It was hot, extremely hot. Already I was beginning to sweat. Deep banks of pipes ran everywhere, emitting a rising steamy vapour, and was it my overstrained fancy that wherever the access of calefaction became most intense Father was made to stop, examine, and listen? Looking at him directly for the first time since we entered I saw that he was suffering. Yes, suffering acutely, in his heavy woollen clothing. Great drops of perspiration were running down his face which, while not as yet matching the colour of the tomatoes in Mother's sandwiches, had taken on the hue of stewed rhubarb.

‘Ye find it a trifle close, maybe. Will ye not remove your cape?'

‘Thank you, m'am, thank you, no,' Father said hurriedly. ‘I am not at all inconvenienced. I rather enjoy a warm air.'

‘Then take a look at this verra special cattleya. There … ye'll get closer if ye bend forward over the pipes.'

Unlike the other orchids, which hitherto had been unremarkable for their odour, this cattleya seemed to emit a most distinctive smell. It smelled, in a word, as Father leaned over, of fish.

A fresh horror struck at me. Our trout, habituated to the chilly waters of the ocean, was not taking kindly to this equatorial pyrexia.

‘Beautiful … extremely beautiful …' Father now scarcely knew what he was saying as, surreptitiously, he sluiced his drenched brow with a back-handed flick.

‘My dear sir,' broke in our tormentor solicitously, ‘ ye're positively sweltering. I insist on ye taking off that heavy cape.'

‘No,' Father gasped in a hollow tone. ‘ The fact is … we are really grateful but … an important engagement … already late … time getting on … we must be going …'

‘Nonsense! I'll not bear o't. Ye havena' seen but the half of my treasures.'

And while our temperatures mounted and the torrid emanations increased, this terrible little woman made us complete the slow suffocating circuit, of the conservatory, forced us even, while she stood below, to climb the white-painted iron stair that spiralled to the roof where, intensified by its ascent, the killing heat produced a mirage in which the prospect we had been enjoined to view assumed the appearance of a deep green swelling sea with cool enticing waves in which Father, at least, would willingly have plunged.

At last she opened the double glassed doors. Then, as we stood weakly in the blessed fresh air she bestowed, first on me, then on Father, a grim yet somehow amiable smile.

‘Don't fail to give my regards to your Dutch friend,' she said, almost with benevolence.
‘And this once ye may keep the fish:
'

Father walked all the way down the avenue in total silence. I dared not look at him. How frightful must be his humiliation—the crushed abasement of a man whom I had hitherto believed capable of anything, of coming out top in the most embarrassing and alarming situations. Suddenly I gave a start Father was laughing, yes, he had begun to laugh. I thought he would never stop. Turning to me with a look of complicity he clapped me companionably on the back.

‘The old girl got the better of us, boy. And I'm hanged if I don't like her for it.'

With these few words he reinstated himself. My faith in him was restored. That was always Father's way—he had the knack of snatching victory from defeat. But just before we reached home he put a finger to his lips and lowered his left eyelid.

‘All the same, we'll not say anything to your mother.'

I had made my peace with Maggie, an act of amendment for which, afterwards, I had cause to bless my mother.

Consulting with her on the most appropriate means of atonement she suggested that I should spend my Saturday penny on whatever my betrayed friend liked best. I accordingly purchased, at Luckie Grant's, a ha'penny worth of black-striped balls and the same amount of coloured transfers and carried these gifts to Maggie's home on the far side of the railway line.

She was seated by a dull fire in the dark little stone-floored kitchen that smelled of soapsuds. She had a sore throat and wore a woollen stocking fastened round her neck with a safety-pin. Perhaps because of this, she received me gently, so gently that I gave way to remorseful tears. For this weakness Maggie reproved me mildly in words I have never forgotten and which were so painfully true I must record them in Maggie's own native idiom.

‘Och, Laurie, laddie, ye're a fearfu' greeter. Yer tear-bag is awfu' near yer e'en.'

Maggie's mother was out, to my great relief, for I could not bear her, not alone because she nagged Maggie, but because, calling me ‘love', and other endearments which I knew to be false, she sought to pump me about my home with insidious questions such as did my mother get on with father, what had she paid for her new hat, and why did we eat fish on Friday?

All that afternoon Maggie and I sat together at the wooden table and stuck the coloured transfers on our hands and arms while sucking the black-striped balls. Cementing our restored amity I gave her a lucky medal which I said would cure her throat. Actually this was a little silver St Christopher medal of the size and shape of a sixpence, but as I dared not invoke the religious element, I made it out to be a charm. Maggie, who liked charms, was delighted and when we parted repeatedly assured me that we were friends again.

In spite of our mutual pledge I did not see much of Maggie that winter. My poor friend was never free. Nevertheless, as I sat at my homework I was pleasantly aware, listening with one ear to my parents' conversation, that good things were being prepared for Maggie and for her betterment.

As our circumstances improved, Father had been urging Mother to seek some help in the work of the house. He had never liked to see her scrubbing or sweeping although I must confess that he rarely offered his assistance in such undertakings. Mother, I truly believe, in spite of the apparent absurdity of the statement, enjoyed housework, and the deep satisfaction of creating a spotless, shining, well-ordered home. She was what the Scots term ‘house proud' and I well remember how, on those days when she had washed the kitchen and scullery floors, I was made to take my shoes off and tread in my stockings on the spread newspapers. Hitherto she had demurred at Father's suggestions, but now twin circumstances induced a change of mind: the new piano demanded better care of her hands, and Maggie, now fourteen, was leaving school at the end of the month.

Mother had a tender heart. She was sorry for Maggie and had grown fond of her. She now made a suggestion to Father which he instantly approved and of which I became the instrument when Mother instructed me:

‘Laurie dear, when you see Maggie tell her I'd like to speak to her mother.'

Next day when Maggie stopped at our house during the lunch hour to say that her mother would ‘come round' on Saturday evening, Mother took the opportunity of sounding her out. Naturally, I was not present at the interview, but Maggie's expression, as she departed, was proud and happy. When I saw her at school that afternoon she had a new air, an important and entirely superior personality as, pausing only to beam a smile towards me, she confided to the other girls in her class that, freed of the tyranny of these everlasting milk cans, she was to be our maid, to have the small attic bedroom, a new dress and a good wage.

Next day was Saturday. In the afternoon, following her weekly custom, Mother put on her best dove-grey costume and, taking me by the hand, proceeded to the village in the open and friendly manner she invariably adopted on such occasions and which was of course completely the reverse of the attitude affected by her husband. Father's public attitude was really inexcusable. I believe he had been badly hurt in some way, unknown to me, during those early difficult days at Rosebank and he was not one who readily forgave an insult. Mother was different, amiably disposed towards all the world, willing to overlook a slight, eager to make friends, and she sought always to modify father's ‘ touchiness', to disarm prejudice and soften hostility. These Saturday excursions, although ostensibly for the practical purposes of shopping, envisaged other objectives and during our promenade, while holding herself in readiness to accept and return the few acknowledgements made to her, Mother, moving in a glowing ambience of good feeling, would maintain a lively conversation with me on all sorts of subjects, thus conveying to the village an impression of our strong social instincts.

On this particular afternoon she spent a very agreeable half-hour at Miss Todd's, the milliner's, choosing a dark dress and also a new pair of stockings and house shoes for Maggie. Thereafter she had a good gossipy talk with Polly Grant, who now never failed to ask after my cousin Terence, then emerging from the grocery, she actually, received a bow from Mrs Duthie elderly wife of the village doctor. Things were looking up for Mother. And this was not all. As we turned to go home, we encountered Pin Rankin, who pegged hard across the road to intercept us.

‘Have you a moment, Mrs Carroll?'

Naturally Mother had as many moments as were desired. Pin, a bachelor, was always shy with women. He took a quick breath, which I knew to be the prelude to a longish speech delivered with the same involvement that, no doubt, had marred his sermons.

‘You have a bright boy, m'am. Some of his compositions are outstanding. I read them to the class. But it's not that I wish to speak to you about. The fact is, Lady Meikle is organizing a charity concert for the Children's Home to be held in the village hall on the fifth of next month, and I wondered, we wondered if you would consent to perform a piano solo. I, we would be so pleased and grateful if you would favour us.'

I looked sharply at Mother. She had blushed deeply. She did not answer for a moment.

‘Oh, do, Mother,' I cried. ‘You know how beautifully you play.'

‘Yes,' she said, in a low voice. ‘I will play.'

On the way home Mother, ordinarily so discursive, remained completely silent. Yet from that silence I knew how deeply this recognition, so long delayed, had gratified her.

In the kitchen Father was brewing some herbal tea at the stove. His cold was apparently not quite gone and he had taken to dosing himself with a concoction of his own. Now, he looked seedy and in a mood that was far from propitious. When Mother disclosed her great news he stared at her. I could see that he was going to throw this precious invitation back in the teeth of the village.

‘Naturally you told them to go to the devil.'

‘No, Conor.' Mother shook her head firmly. ‘It's a good thing. It means that they're taking to us at last.'

‘They've only come to you because they need you.'

But Mother had known he would be difficult. She was determined to have her way. Countering all his arguments, she talked Father over. In the end, he became reconciled, in fact quite puffed up with the idea. Realizing that Lady Meikle was ‘behind it' he was inclined, with the vanity of a reformed lady-killer, to attribute the invitation to his influence upon her, the result of that memorable meeting.

‘You see, boy,' he gave me a conspirator's nod, ‘she hasn't forgotten us.'

That jocular glance of Father's seemed to set a seal upon the new pattern of our life. We were getting on in the world. Father was prospering, Mother was to play at the concert, I had been praised by Pin for the little essays he set for the weekend homework and, to crown all, in the village people were actually beginning to like us. What a lucky boy I was, and how shining a future stretched before me.