O Caledonia (15 page)

Two by two in their prickly tweed coats and their damp felt hats the girls of St Uncumba
'
s marched in crocodile through empty streets back to their boarding houses. Bells were clamorous. Cynthia ogled the occasional male passer-by and sang a revolting song about babies,

 

Twenty tiny fingers, twenty tiny toes

Two angel faces, each with a turned up nose . . .

 

Janet was able to ignore her because she had discovered a beautiful new word in her Latin dictionary
–
stillicidium,
the dripping of rain water from roofs and gables. It had stopped raining now, and the gaunt, steeply-pitched stone houses offered satisfying illustrations of the word
'
s unique fitness for its purpose. How she wished she could share her pleasure with Cynthia; as it was she dared not even whisper the word aloud.

As they approached the War Memorial, Cynthia
'
s pace slackened.
‘
Hang back,
'
she hissed at Janet. There was a small sweet shop open on Sundays and Cynthia planned to break the law. She would go in and she would buy a slab of Highland toffee. Janet was to keep watch; it would be worth it. The rest of the crocodile swung round the corner on to the cliff road. Cynthia sidled through the shop doorway. Janet, stood with thumping heart, trying to look casual, certain that every distant figure was an oncoming member of staff. The penalties for breaking a school rule were severe; for going into a shop they could be suspended for weeks. They might be picking up germs which would spread through the school like wildfire. Most importantly they might be picking up the polio germ and bringing death and disablement. Besides, men went into shops and they must never, ever speak to men. The girls were given to understand that all men seethed with uncontrollable desire for them and the smallest encouragement would lead to murder. Or worse. Only their fathers might enter the sacred precincts of St Uncumba
'
s. Uncles were out of the question. Janet wished Cynthia would hurry up. A group of people had gathered round the War Memorial. She watched them uneasily. They paid no attention to her; they were looking at something on the pavement. Janet edged nearer. They were laughing. A pigeon was walking in slow circles on the shining cobbles; it wore a little paper hat. How strange, thought Janet; perhaps it was a circus bird, a lawless Sunday entertainer. Then she saw that blood was dripping from its beak; its eye was dull, its gait unsteady. The top of its head had gone and what she had taken for a paper hat was the membrane which covered its brain. Someone picked up a stick and prodded it. It flounced sideways, toppled and regained its balance. Janet looked at the grinning faces; she looked at the bird, so meek and dignified, accepting its ruined life without complaint, silent and harmless.

‘
Get out of my way,
'
she yelled. Panting, she shoved her way through the throng and grabbed the bird. It settled passively in her cupped hands. She ran back to the shop. Cynthia appeared.
‘
Throw it away, Janet. It
'
s going to die anyway.
'
‘
There
'
s a vet round the corner, we can take it there; we can
'
t just leave it. Those people are hurting it.
' ‘
Look, it
'
s only a pigeon.
' ‘
Shut up, shut up,
'
shrieked Janet; tears of outrage blurred her eyes.
‘
I
'
m going to the vet. Are you coming or not?
'
‘
Oh for heaven
'
s sake, all right then. But there
'
s no point.
'

Janet rang the vet
'
s shiny brass doorbell. No one came. She beat on the door with the shiny brass knocker. She shouted through the letterbox,
‘
Hurry up, please, please hurry up.
'

Suddenly the door was whisked open. A woman stood there glaring at them.
‘
How dare you make a racket like that. On a Sunday too. What do you want?
'
Janet held out the pigeon.
‘
You
'
ve not made an appointment. You can
'
t see the vet. In any case he
'
s not here. You
'
d best give that thing a knock on the head. Now be off with you and stop wasting my time.
'
She slammed the door. The pigeon was soft and warm, nestled in Janet
'
s hands, but blood flowed more freely now from its beak and it had begun to tremble. She could feel its tiny heart flickering.
‘
Well,
'
said Cynthia,
‘
either we chuck it over the cliff or we bash it on the head; it
'
s worse for it to go on suffering.
' ‘
Yes,
'
said Janet.
‘
Yes.
'
She looked at the bird and knew that she could not end its life, no matter how right, how necessary this was. She tried to imagine swinging it against a wall or smashing its brain with a stone and she felt all strength ebb from her limbs. She leant against the vet
'
s railings, gasping.
‘
Oh
God
,
'
she wailed.
‘
Right, that
'
s it. Give it to me,
'
commanded Cynthia. She took the bird and walked quickly behind the house. In a moment she was back.
‘
It didn
'
t feel a thing, honestly.
' ‘
But we must bury it,
'
sobbed Janet.
‘
Look, I
'
ve buried it; I put some earth over it. And we
'
re going to be late back if we don
'
t rush.
'
A bell tolled a single solemn note, a death knell.
‘
My God, it
'
s one o
'
clock. Come
on.
'
Janet did not believe that Cynthia had buried the pigeon but she was finished, without resource. Obediently she followed her. Cynthia explained their lateness by saying that Janet had felt faint and ill.
‘
I was really quite worried, Miss Smith. You can see how she
'
s shaking now. Oh, she had a nose bleed too. Her coat
'
s in a bit of a state.
' ‘
Well done, Cynthia.
'

Janet was packed off to bed where she continued to shake. She thought many thoughts, and the worst of all was that hateful Cynthia had had the courage to perform an act of mercy; she had failed through cowardice.
‘
Well done, Cynthia.
'
Her teeth chattered. She slept. When she woke it was still light. Downstairs someone was practising the flute. Four o
'
clock on a wan Sunday afternoon in March; a bad time, a time that was endless.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

In April, when Janet returned to Auchnasaugh, she was astonished and overjoyed to find that Lila was there. In fact, Lila had scarcely been away. The shock of the journey to Edinburgh and the unfamiliar central heating in the little house had proved too great for Mouflon and for three agonising days Lila had watched him die. She ignored Maisie and her nervous fluttering cries, her pleas for help up the stairs, for tea and shortbread, for a friendly chat. She sat in her room with a bottle of whisky, feeding the old cat hourly from a dropper; she entered the kitchen only to warm milk for him. She left the house only to fetch more whisky, which she put down on Maisie
'
s grocery bill. On the third day, when Mouflon was stiff and cold and dead she put him in the fridge, to await their return to Auchnasaugh, where he must be buried. Then she took the kitchen scissors from their hook above the sink (
‘
A place for everything and everything in its place,
'
Maisie had quavered as she showed her round). She began to cut her hair off, sawing and wrenching at the resistant wiry locks. Long black hanks and twists drifted into the sink, blocking the drain outlet. The scissors were blunt. She hurled them across the room and seized a carving knife. Maisie heard the clatter and came creeping hopefully down the stairs. When she saw Lila her fey, small face lit up.
‘
Och that
'
s good,
'
she said.
‘
Now you
'
re settled in at last. We
'
ll have a nice cup of coffee.
'
Lila stared blankly at her and went on slashing at her hair. Maisie, tremulously removing a bottle of Camp coffee from the cupboard, saw the sudden gleam of the knife in the neon strip light; she looked again at Lila, gasped and sat down. The bottle smashed to the floor. Maisie began to cry. In bustled her cleaning woman, Dora.
‘
Oh dear, what a mess. Never you mind, Miss Carstairs, it
'
s only a wee bit of broken glass, dinna fash, we
'
ll have it cleared in a minute.
'
She saw Lila. Her tone changed,
‘
And what may you be doing? I
'
ll thank you to put that knife down. And if you
'
d be kind enough to move perhaps I could reach the brush and dustpan and perhaps I could get the milk for madam
'
s hot drink.
'
Lila stood with her back against the fridge door.
‘
Go away,
'
she whispered,
‘
Go away.
'
‘
I will do no such thing,
'
retorted Dora; she tugged at the door handle with one hand and grabbed at the knife with the other. Lila bit her arm. The fridge door swung open, revealing Mouflon
'
s outstretched pinkly lustrous figure and sightless glare. Dora shrieked, slammed it shut and rushed from the room. She telephoned the doctor and the policeman before returning to the kitchen. Maisie was rocking from side to side on her chair; her eyes were shut; she sang a little ditty, beating time on the table:

 

Tompkin will you dance?

Tompkin will you sing?

Dance then, dance, you merry little men...

 

Lila sat on the top of the fridge with her legs dangling down over the door. She still held the knife.
‘
I am in mourning,
'
she announced.
‘
I must go home.
' ‘
Aye, that you must,
'
said Dora,
‘
And any minute now the car will be here. We
'
ll give you a hand with your things. Lucky you haven
'
t unpacked. Now just hand me the knife, there
'
s a good wee lass.
'
Lila dropped the knife.
‘
Could you, very sweetly, pour me a tiny drop of whisky?
'
she asked in a soft, girlish voice. Dora
'
s heart melted.
‘
Aye, gladly, and I
'
ll join you. Just a wee dram; I think we both need it.
'
Then she remembered the approaching policeman and doctor.
‘
We
'
ll take it in the breakfast cups. Just for the look of things, ye ken.
'
She glanced at the elfin, melodious figure swaying over the table.
‘
Herself won
'
t mind. She
'
s off in her own world, bless her. The best place tae be. Well now, here
'
s tae us. And a wee Doc and Doris afore ye gang awa
'
!
'
Lila understood almost nothing of what she said, but she raised her cup and drank, although she could not smile, and did not speak.

Maisie was indeed in her own world, and farther than they thought. She was sitting on a lawn in Kashmir, under the greenish-black sweetness of a deodar tree. Her ayah
'
s arms were tight and loving and rocked her; she wore her muslin dress with rosebuds and the pink sash. Beside them on the grass lay the sweeper
'
s enchanting baby, clad only in a little shirt and a hat like a tea cosy. At a small distance the sweeper
'
s wife sat cross-legged, her dark face tranquil and beaming. Maisie sang to the baby. The baby rolled and wriggled and laughed. How he laughed! Each time he laughed her ayah hugged her tighter and kissed her, and she laughed too. The heavy perfumed branches curved down and hid them from the house. The sun dazzled and spotted through them. So secret, so happy. Such memories she had, but no one wanted to hear them. And tea chests of sepia photographs, but no one wanted to see them.
‘
Dance then, dance, you merry little men...
'
The sweet small feet beat the warm air; in the shining black eyes she could see her own reflection, and above, the great dark tree.