1

THERE WAS such a long pause that I wondered whether my Mamma and my Papa were ever going to speak to each other again. Not that I feared they had quarrelled, only we children had quarrels, but they had each fallen into a dream. Then Papa said hesitantly, “You know, I am very sorry about all this, my dear.”

Mamma answered almost before he had finished, “It will not matter at all, provided that everything goes right this time. And it will go all right, won’t it?”

“Yes, yes, I am sure it will,” said Papa. A sneer came into his voice. “I should be able to do all that is asked of me. I should be able to edit a small suburban newspaper.”

“Oh, my dear Piers, I know the work is not worthy of you,” said Mamma warmly. “Yet what a godsend it is, how lucky it is that Mr. Morpurgo should happen to own such a paper, and how good it is of him to want to help you—” She faltered before she came to the end of her sentence.

“Again,” said Papa absently, simply supplying the word. “Yes, it is odd that such a rich man as Morpurgo should bother himself with a thing like the Lovegrove Gazette. It brings in a fair profit for what it is, so they tell me, but it is very small beer for a man with those enormous interests. But I suppose if one accumulates a great fortune all sorts of rags and bones get mixed with the diamonds and the nuggets.” He retired once more into his dream. His grey eyes, bright under his straight black brows, pierced the walls of the farm-house parlour. Even though I was a very little girl I knew that he was imagining what it was like to be a millionaire.

Mamma lifted the brown teapot and refilled his cup and hers, and sighed, and his eyes went back to her. “You hate being left here in this lonely place?”

“No, no, I am happy anywhere,” she said. “And I have always wanted the children to have a holiday on the Pentland Hills as I did when I was their age. And there is nothing better for children than life on a farm; at least people always say so, I can’t imagine why. But letting the flat furnished, that I do not like. Such a thing to have to do.”

“I know, I know,” said Papa, sadly but impatiently.

All this happened more than fifty years ago, and my parents were not making a fuss about nothing. In those days few respectable people were willing to let their homes furnished, and no respectable people ever wanted to take them.

“I know these people have a good reason for wanting somewhere to stay for the summer, coming over from Australia to see this daughter of theirs in Doctor Philip’s sanatorium,” Mamma murmured, “but such a risk, leaving strangers in the flat with all that good furniture.”

“I suppose it is valuable,” said Papa thoughtfully.

“Well, of course, it is only Empire,” said Mamma, “but for what it is, it is the best. Aunt Clara bought it all in France and Italy when she was married to the French violinist, and it is all solid and comfortable, and, though I know it is not Chippendale, the chairs with the swans and the others with the dolphins’ heads are really very pretty, and the silks with the bees and the stars are quite handsome. We shall be thankful to have all that furniture when we start afresh at Lovegrove.”

“At Lovegrove,” said Papa. “Really, it is very strange that I should be going back to Lovegrove. Isn’t it strange, Rose,” he said, giving me a lump of sugar from the bowl, “that I should be taking you back to a place where I used to stay when I was little like you?”

“Was Uncle Richard Quin there too?” I asked. Papa’s brother had died in India of fever when he was twenty-one. He had been christened Richard Quinbury to distinguish him from another Richard in the family, and Papa had loved him so much that he had called our little brother by his name, and we regarded our little brother as much the nicest of us four children, so we thought of our dead uncle as a joy stolen from us and were always trying to recover him in our father’s stories.

“Richard Quin was there too,” said Papa, “or I should not remember it so well. The places I visited without him are never so distinct.”

“Try to find us a house near the house where you stayed,” said Mamma. “It will be an interest for the children.”

“What was the name, I wonder. Oh, yes, Caroline Lodge. But of course it will have been pulled down long ago. It was quite a small house but very charming.”

Suddenly Mamma laughed. “Why should it have been pulled down? You are so gloomy about everything except the future of copper mines.”

“Copper will come right in the long run,” said Papa, cold with sudden anger.

“My dear, you must not mind what I say!” she protested. She and I looked at him anxiously, and after a minute he smiled. All the same, he then glanced at the clock, and said that it was time he was getting back to the station, if he were to catch the six-o’clock train to Edinburgh; and the light had gone out of him, he had that shabby, beggar look that even we children sometimes had to remark in him. Tenderly Mamma told him, “Very well, we don’t want you to miss your train and have to hang about that draughty little station for hours, though heaven knows we want to keep you with us till the last moment. Oh, it is good of you, indeed it is, when you have so much on your mind, to help me bring the children down here.”

“It is the least I could do,” he answered heavily.

While the trap was being brought round we went out and stood on the holystoned steps of the farm-house. The paddock in front of us stretched down to the shores of the loch, which was a dark shining circle, perfectly round, under the grey-green walls of the valley. Midway to the water we could see two white scraps that were my elder sister Cordelia and my twin sister Mary, a blue scrap that was my little brother, Richard Quin. He was just old enough now to run about very fast and fall down, always without hurting himself, and to babble and laugh and tease us; we played with him all day and never grew tired of him.

My mother threw back her head and called to them, her voice going straight out like the cry of a bird, “Children, come and say good-bye to your father!”

My sisters were for one moment frozen where they stood. In this new lovely place they had forgotten what overhung us. Then Cordelia picked up Richard Quin and hurried as fast as was safe; and then the four of us stood and looked up at Papa, looking hard so that we would remember him perfectly while he was away these dreadful six weeks. It was perhaps a mistake to look so hard at him, he was so wonderful. This was no childish delusion; we were objective enough about certain things. We all knew that Mamma was not good-looking. She was too thin, her nose and forehead were shiny like bone, and her features were disordered because her tortured nerves were always drawing a rake over her face. Also we were so poor that she never had new clothes. But we were conscious that our Papa was far handsomer than anybody else’s. He was not tall, but he was slender and graceful, he stood like a fencer in a picture, and he was romantically dark; his hair and his moustache were true black, and his skin was tanned, with a faint rose under the tan on his cheeks; and he had high cheekbones, which made his face sharp like the muzzle of a cat—it was the least stupid face one could imagine. Also he knew everything, he had been all over the world, even to China, he could draw and could carve wood and make little figures and dolls’ houses. Sometimes he would play games with us and tell stories, and it was almost impossible to bear it, every moment brought forth such an intense delight, quite unpredictable, so that one could not prepare for it. It was true that sometimes he would take no notice of us for days, and that too was almost unbearable. But it was part of our grief that we were not going to suffer that woe either for six weeks.

“Children, children, we will soon be together again,” said Papa, “and you will like being here!” He pointed to the hills beyond the loch. “Before the holidays are over they will all turn purple. You will like that.”

“Purple?” We could not think what he meant. All four of us had been born in South Africa and had left it less than a year before.

When he had described the flowering of the heather Cordelia, who was older than Mary and me by nearly two years and made the most of it, sighed noisily and said, “Oh, dear! This is going to be a dreadful holiday for me. The children will be wandering off all the time to look at it, and getting lost on the hills, and I will always have to be running after them and bringing them back. And the loch, they are sure to fall into that too.”

“Idiot, we can both swim as well as you can,” muttered Mary, and indeed all of us girls had learned when we were babies on the South African beaches. Mamma heard her and said, “Oh, do not quarrel with Cordelia now, Mary,” and Mary said, teasing her, “Then when?” and Cordelia made an exaggerated grimace of despair, as of one who cannot succeed in drawing the world’s attention to the huge burden she is bearing, and I murmured to Mary, “We will box her ears afterwards.” But then we were distracted by what Mamma was saying.

“I have got it clear, then, you travel to London tomorrow, and at once go, I suppose, to see Mr. Morpurgo.”

“No,” said Papa. “No, I go straight to the office at Lovegrove.”

“Not to see Mr. Morpurgo? Not to thank him? Oh, but surely he will expect you to do that first of all.”

“No,” said Papa. “He says he does not want to see me.” As Mamma’s stare hardened on him he gave a little sneering laugh. “He was always a timid little fellow. Something has put him out for the moment, and he says he is glad that I should edit his paper for him, but he thinks it better that I should only deal with one of his directors who sees to that sort of minor thing, and that we should not meet. Let him have his way, though I cannot see the point of it.”

Mamma perhaps could. She drew a shuddering breath and said, “Oh, well. You go straight to the office at Lovegrove and settle all about your work, and look for a house for us, and then you go to Ireland and see your uncle, and then I come down with the children and the furniture in good time to have all ready for the children to go to school at the beginning of the term and you to start work on the first of October. That is how it is to be, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, my dear,” he said, “that is how it is to be.” He kissed us all, beginning with Cordelia and ending with Richard Quin, an order he always observed, for he was a just man. This had at one time distressed Mary and me, for we were all against primogeniture, until it occurred to Mary that we always ate the dullest food on our plates and kept what we liked to the last. Then he dropped his moustachioed mouth to Mamma’s cheek and as he raised his head again asked lightly, “How long can you stay here?”

Mamma’s face became convulsed. “But I have told you. I took the money the Australians gave me for the flat, I paid the landlord our arrears of rent and settled all the tradesmen’s books, and with what I have left we can stay here till the third week in September. But no longer. No longer. But why do you ask? Are your plans not settled? Is it not to be as we have just arranged?”

“Yes, yes,” said my father.

“Tell me if it is not to be so,” she begged him fiercely. “I can face anything. But I must know.”

We watched them with curiosity that referred to much more than this moment. Why were we leaving Edinburgh so soon? Mamma had told us when we left South Africa, where we had lived calmly enough on the outskirts of a war, that because Papa was to be assistant editor of The Caledonian we would live in Edinburgh till we were nearly grown-up and had to go to London to study at one of the great schools of music, as she had done. And in South Africa, why had we left Cape Town so suddenly for Durban? And why was Mamma always so distressed when these calls to movement came, while Papa remained calm but spoke absently, as if all this were happening to someone else, and often laughed to himself quietly and contemptuously. That was what he was doing as he walked towards the trap. “There is nothing to know, my dear Clare,” he said and jumped up to his seat beside the driver.

“Good-bye,” Mamma cried to him. “And write! Write! Only a postcard, if you are too busy for a letter. But write!”

We watched the trap take off and cover the stretch of road that ran to the end of the valley, and go over the pass and vanish. That did not take long. The boy who drove was getting the best out of his horse; people always showed off in front of Papa. Then Richard Quin pulled at Mamma’s skirts and told her in his babble that she was not to cry and that he wanted a drink. We all went back to the parlour and adored him while he sat on Mamma’s lap and gulped down some milk, shaking all over with the effort and pleasure of gulping, like a puppy at a saucer.

“Who is Mr. Morpurgo?” asked Mary. “It is a funny name. It sounds like a conjurer. ‘The Great Morpurgo.’” She realized quite well that Mamma had been disturbed by something this unknown man had done, but she was not simply being tactless. We were quite little but we were already cunning as foxes. We had to be. We had to sniff the wind and decide from which quarter the next misfortune was coming, and make our own provisions against it, which were often not quite what our parents would have approved. When the trouble began in The Caledonian, whatever it might be, Mary and I thought it prudent to tell the children of the people in the next flat that Papa had had an offer to go to a better post somewhere else. Thus we secured that at a time when Mamma was unhappy she was not treated by her neighbours with less respect but with more; and anyway, as we pointed out to each other, it turned out to be true, for here he was going to the Lovegrove Gazette. We had found out a sensible way of behaving, and we were not going to drop it because of adult fussiness.

“Mr. Morpurgo,” said Mamma, “is someone we should bless all our lives. He is a very rich man, a banker, I think, and ever since he met your Papa, on a ship somewhere, he has done everything he could for him. He gave your Papa his position in Durban after the proprietors of his paper in Cape Town behaved so strangely. They made no allowances whatsoever. And now that The Caledonian has proved such a disappointment to your Papa, Mr. Morpurgo has made him editor of this paper he owns in South London. I do not know what would have happened to us all if he had not come forward. Though I should not say that. You must never think that your Papa would not find some way of providing for us all. He will never,” she said, tilting the cup so that Richard Quin would get the last drop, “fail us.”

“What does Mr. Morpurgo look like?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mamma. “I don’t think I ever met him. But your Papa has known him for a long time. He admires your Papa very much. Everybody does except people who are envious of him.”

Cordelia asked, “Why should anybody envy him? We have so little money.”

“Oh, they envy him his brains, his appearance, everything about him,” sighed Mamma, “and then, he is always right when everybody else is wrong. A situation,” she said sternly, fixing her blazing black eyes on each of us in turn, “in which none of you are likely to find yourselves.” Then she grew soft again, and looked down on Richard Quin as he held the cup almost upside down in an effort to get the last drops. “No, my lamb. When you make a great noise eating you must stop, you are doing it the wrong way, unless you stop and do it without making a noise you will turn into a little pig, and then you will have to go and live in a sty, and though you might like that your poor sisters would be distracted. They would want to be with you, but there would be no room for them and you must consider them, they are so good to you. Oh, my little lamb, I wonder what instrument you are going to play. It is irritating not to know.”

For of course we all played something. Just as all the people in Papa’s family in Ireland were soldiers or soldiers’ wives, so everybody in Mamma’s West Highland family was a musician, and always had been, for at least five generations back. They had left no great names in music, perhaps because they had always died quite young; but Mamma’s grandfather had gone to Austria and played in the orchestra of the Viennese Opera, and had spoken to Beethoven and Schubert, and her father had been Kapellmeister at a small German ducal court, her dead brother had been quite a well-known conductor and composer, and she would have been a famous pianist, indeed she was already well known by her middle twenties, when one night, just as she was going on the platform at a concert in Geneva, she had been handed a telegram which told her that her favourite brother had died of sunstroke in India. She had played the programme out and then had gone back to her hotel and fallen into a sort of fever, which had lasted for weeks and left her so melancholy that she had gone on a journey round the world to recover, as companion to an elderly woman who had admired her playing. In Ceylon she had met Papa, who was just then leaving a good position he had held on a tea-plantation. They married and went to South Africa to another good position that some relative of his found him. But he was unfortunate there too, Mamma had never told us exactly how. It did not matter, however. He had been writing for some time, and had discovered a talent for it, and he very easily got a post as leader-writer on a Cape Town newspaper. And Mamma had had all of us, and had been very worried, and now she was past forty, and her fingers were getting stiff, and her nerves were bad, and she would never go back to playing again. But she was teaching us to play, and though Cordelia was no good and she had given her up as hopeless when she was seven, Mary and I were, she thought, all right. And somehow we knew Richard Quin was going to be all right too. He managed the triangle, on which we all were started, quite well.

“I don’t believe it will be the piano,” Mamma said, scrutinizing him narrowly, as if it were written in the grain of one’s skin what instrument one would play. And there was some sense in it. Even then one could not imagine Richard Quin sitting down in front of a piano, which is a forthright, monumental instrument, bigger than the person who plays it, and resistant to all relationships except those affected through the keyboard, though one could imagine him picking up a violin or a clarinet. “And you, Mary and Rose,” she went on, “the Erard in the corner is old but it is in tune. There is a man comes out from Pennycuick every six months and tunes it. Fate is on our side. The Weirs say that you can play it when you like except on Sundays. Let there be no excuses, you must practise just as regularly as you do at home. And while we are here I will give you lessons five times a week instead of three. I will have more time.”

“And what about me?” said Cordelia.

Mary and I looked at her tenderly, though we so often hated her, and there was a pause before Mamma answered, “Oh, you will have your lessons like the others, never fear.”

Cordelia had no idea that she was not musical. When Mamma had stopped giving her piano lessons, a little girl in the house next door was studying the violin, and she had insisted on learning too, and had ever since then shown an extreme and mistaken industry. She had a true ear, indeed she had absolute pitch, which neither Mamma nor Mary nor I had, which was a terrible waste, and she had supple fingers, she could bend them right back to the wrist, and she could read anything at sight. But Mamma’s face crumpled, first with rage, and then, just in time, with pity, every time she heard Cordelia laying the bow over the strings. Her tone was horribly greasy, and her phrasing always sounded like a stupid grown-up explaining something to a child. Also she did not know good music from bad, as we did, as we had always done.

It was not Cordelia’s fault that she was unmusical. Mamma had often explained that to us. Children were like their father’s family or their mother’s, and Cordelia had taken her inheritance from Papa. That gave her some advantages, it did indeed. Mary had black hair and I had brown, and so had many other little girls. But though Papa was so dark, there was red hair in his family, and Cordelia’s head was covered with short red-gold curls, which shone in the light and made people turn round in the street. There was something more to it than mere heredity, too, which made it harder to bear. It was at Papa’s insistence that Mamma kept Cordelia’s hair short at a time when that was a long-forgotten fashion, not to be renewed for years. At his home in Ireland there had been a portrait of his Aunt Lucy, who went to Paris just after the Napoleonic wars and had herself painted by Baron Gérard in a chiton and a leopard-skin, with her hair dressed in the fashion known as à la Bacchante, and as Cordelia was very like her he got Mamma to get her curls cut in as nearly the same style as puzzled hairdressers in South Africa and Edinburgh could manage.

Mary and I were not pleased about this. It made us feel that Cordelia was not only closer to Papa than we were, owing to an unfair decision of nature, but that she was also an object on which he had worked to bring her up to the standards of his taste. He had not done that to us. Nor were we worked on by anybody else. With all this piano-playing, Mary and I had no time, and Mamma had no time either, to subject us to any process that would turn us into finished articles, we were raw material. It really was cruel that we had to play the piano as well as do so much, that Mamma had to go shopping and help with the housework and deal with Papa’s worries so that she was never composed and dressed like other mammas, that we had to go to school and always struck our teachers as careless and hurried. Yet it was piano-playing that set our accounts right. For though there was red hair in Papa’s family, there was not a shred of musical talent, and we would rather have been musical with Mamma than have red-gold curls and make utter fools of ourselves by playing the violin as Cordelia did. We were sorry for Cordelia, particularly now, when Papa, from whom she derived such interest as she possessed, had gone away for six weeks. But all the same she was an ass to think she could play the violin, it was as if Mary and I thought we had red-gold curls.

The air of the room swayed with the tides of liking and dislike, forgiveness and resentment, and then the farmer’s wife came in and asked if we would like to see the mare and foal which her husband had just brought back from a sale at a hill farm, and we passed over into the world of the animals. But here too there were tides, nothing was stable. First of all we were introduced to the collie dogs, who were made to sniff us and lick us, so that they would recognize us as members of the household and give us neither bark nor bite. This we did not enjoy because we disapproved of animals so abandoned to ill will that ceremonies had to be performed before they would consent to show common civility to inoffensive people like Mamma and us. “But they are watch-dogs,” Mamma reminded us, “they protect the farm from thieves,” but we jeered, “What thieves?” and looked round the amphitheatre of the clear green hills triumphantly, as if the innocence of the stage-setting proved the innocence of the drama. It is strange how it was in the air in those days, the belief that war, crime, and all cruelty were about to vanish from the face of the earth, even little girls knew it to be a promise that was going to be kept.

Then the farmer’s wife pointed to some fields on the hillside, spotted brown with cattle, and told us not to go there, because a bull was running with the cows. We had no quarrel with that, we must have felt that the mysterious safe-conduct we had been given by the universe did not extend to bulls, our mouths went dry when we thought of what it would be like to be caught in those fields, particularly if we had Richard Quin with us. But in the byres the young stock stood, the calves that were not yet yearlings, as civilized and friendly as we could have wished to be ourselves, and there was a two-day-old calf, lax on the ground like a great skein of fawn-coloured silk, which was frightened of us as we would have been of the dogs and the bull, had we not anaesthetized fear in us, from fear that we might give support to the lie that girls are not so brave as boys. Feminism too was in the air, even in the nursery air. But the farm cats spat at us, and we had to draw back our hands, brave or not, while they glared at us, coarse as burglars, coarse as Charles Peace, not like cats at all. “Remember,” cried Mamma, “the poor things have to fight rats, they could not do it if they let themselves be gentle. It would be a luxury they cannot have.” Was the world kind or was it not, was the farm going to be a safe place for Richard Quin?

But in a loose-box we found the new mare and her foal and knew there was hope. Her long straight forelock, falling between her two big ears, gave her the look of a plain woman wearing an ugly hat, her gaze was anxious as if she were human and could count, she towered over us but it was not imaginable that she would organize her strength against us, her long-legged foal was shy as if it had been warned not to make a noise and irritate the people in this new place where their lot must lie. She made me think of a widow with her orphan child, unresentful and willing to serve, but sad, whom I had once seen in one of the registry offices which my mother sometimes visited. (For though we had so little money we had a servant, in those days even poor households had servants, they shared their poverty with some girl quite destitute.) We went on into the stables, and could see nothing through the darkness except the white stars on the standing horses’ foreheads, the long white blazes on their faces, their white stockings, and a white pattern of light traced high on the wall by a mullioned window. This farm had been built among the ruins of a medieval castle which had been a meeting-place of the Knights Templar, and this stable was where they had dined. After a time we could see the rolling of the mild nervous eyes which showed these horses had wills if they chose to use them, the barrel-bulk of their girdled bodies, the tree-trunk straightness of their forelegs, the cunning elastic spring of their hind legs, the huge spread of their round feet, all the strength that stirred so little and so much more mildly than it might have, had there been malice here. These were kind creatures. We saw two mice dallying in the litter underneath one giant, and knew it was proved.

The journey, and parting from Papa, and meeting all these animals, made us so tired that we went to bed only a little later than Richard Quin, while it was still light, though usually we stayed up to the last moment that we were allowed. Cordelia and Mary and I slept in the same room, Mary and I in a double bed with a high mahogany headboard carved with plump fruit and flowers, and Cordelia in a camp-bed at its foot. Nobody could sleep with Cordelia, she so often threw herself about in her dreams, calling out orders. Mary and I were very comfortable at night, we used to snuggle down with one of us burying her face in the other’s back and pressing her tummy against the other’s behind, and both knowing nothing more till morning. Mary was tall and slim, in a way she looked grown-up though she was a child, she was collected and calculating, at the piano she could work out any problem of fingering quietly while I would rush at it and get excited and cry; but with me she was always soft and yielding, we were like two little bears together.

When Mamma said good night to us I noticed that since she had been talking to the farm people her Scots accent had become much broader than usual, the line of her sentences had only to be exaggerated for them to be like the phrases of a song. It sounded very pretty. She told us that if we wanted anything in the night we were to rouse her, and we need not even go out into the passage, the door by the window was not a cupboard door as we might think, it led into the room where she and Richard Quin were sleeping. She was always saying things like that, but we never wanted any help, we were so independent, so old for our age. But it was nice of her, we thought, as we sank into our sleep.

Suddenly we were all awake. I was as alert as if I had never slept. I put out my hand and I found that Mary was sitting erect with her back braced against the headboard; and the camp-bed creaked under Cordelia as she started up. It was quite dark, and there was a terrible noise. It was as if the night were frightened of itself. Someone or something was beating on a drum. The noise was not very loud, but the resonance was total, it was as if the drum were the earth itself. It made us feel as sad as Papa’s departure, as Mamma’s occasional tears. It meant nothing but sadness, it stated it again and again.

It stopped. Mary’s hand came into mine. I moistened my lips and breathed, “I wonder what that was.” After all, Cordelia was older than we were, she might know something we did not.

Cordelia said, “It is nothing. It can’t be anything. The farm people must hear it too. They would come and warn us if it were anything dangerous.”

“But it might be something that has never happened before,” said Mary.

“Yes, this may be part of the end of the world,” I said.

“Nonsense,” said Cordelia, “the world won’t come to an end in our time.”

“Why shouldn’t it?” I asked. “It will have to come to an end in somebody’s time.”

“And in a way it would be exciting to be there,” said Mary.

“Go to sleep,” said Cordelia.

“We will, if we want to,” said Mary, “but do not tell us to.”

“I am the eldest,” said Cordelia.

It started again, this beating on the huge drum.

“Mary, Mamma said there was a candle by your side,” I said. “Light it, and then we can get to the window and see if anything is happening.”

Through the darkness we heard the rasp of matches on the box, but no light came. “I cannot think,” said Cordelia, “why Mamma didn’t leave the candle with me.”

“Because there isn’t a table by you, you ass,” said Mary. “And I think the matches are wet, they won’t strike.”

“You are making excuses because you are clumsy,” said Cordelia.

“You are getting cross because you are frightened,” said Mary.

The noise swelled up to a wild proclamation of loss and doom; but suddenly the darkness melted into pale and wavering light, for the door in the wall opened and Mamma came in, holding a candlestick in one hand and rubbing her eyes with the other. “Children, what are you doing, talking so loud at this time of night?” she asked. “We are not alone as we are at home, you might waken the Weirs, and they work so hard.”

“Mamma, what is that terrible noise?”

“A terrible noise! What terrible noise?” she asked, her eyes and mouth stupid with sleep.

“Why, what we are hearing now,” said Mary.

Mamma murmured, “Can something else extraordinary be happening?” With an effort she set herself to listen, and her face lightened. “Why, children, that is the horses stamping in their stalls.”

We were astonished. “What, just those horses that we saw this afternoon?”

“Yes, those. Oh, why, now I listen, I do not wonder you were frightened. It is a tremendous noise to be made by horses’ hooves.”

“But why does it sound so sad?”

Yawning, she answered, “Well, so does thunder, sad as if everything had gone wrong for the last time. And the sea often sounds sad, and the wind in the trees nearly always. Go to sleep, my lambs.”

“But how can a horse’s hoof stamping down on a stable floor sound so sad?” I asked.

“Well, why should Mamma’s fingers coming down on ivory keys sometimes sound so very sad?” asked Mary.

“We will think of that tomorrow, please,” said Mamma, “though really I do not know why I should promise you that we will think to any purpose. If you ask me tomorrow or any other day why some sounds are sad and others glad I shall not be able to tell you. Not even your Papa could tell you that. Why, what a thing to ask, my pets! If you knew that, you would know everything. Good night, my dears, good night.”

All of us were happy at that farm for the first ten days or so. We children were drunk on the hill air, for till then we had never spent more than a few hours above sea-level. “And it is better still in the real mountains,” Mamma told us. “Oh, children, when you have made your way in the world, you must go to Switzerland. Up there at Davos, the air was so clear that everything looks as if it had been polished with a soft cloth.” We said doubtfully, “Switzerland?” and declared it our intention to go farther, to Kilimanjaro, to Popocatepetl, to Mount Everest. Yes, we would wait until Richard Quin was old enough, and we would be the first party to climb Mount Everest. “No, no,” said Mamma, not at all pleased, “not Everest. Once you are doing well, you will find you have enough on your hands with your concerts, and indeed too much.” That answer, given gravely, was of a kind commonly made by her, which caused one of the main inconveniences of our lives. Ordinary people often spoke to Mamma for a short time and then went away, thinking her silly and even mad, because of just such remarks. But she was showing the most splendid sense. She knew she would have climbed Mount Everest if she had had the chance, and she supposed, with the world changing as quickly as it was, that the chance might come to us; she had nearly become a famous pianist and she thought it probable that with our talents we might succeed where only ill luck had given her failure; and in any case she was talking to children, and so she talked as a child, as one played Bach in the manner of Bach, and Brahms in the manner of Brahms.

We made this holiday a rehearsal for Everest, a trial of strength, and again she was sympathetic but applied a principle of moderation. We had supposed we would spend the part of the day left over from our practising in taking long walks over the moors, but we found it more amusing to help on the farm, doing things that the farmer and his wife would not have thought we were strong enough or grown-up enough to do. We would take a forgotten basket of bannocks down to the men working on the farthest field, away beyond the pass; we would polish the horse-brasses the day before the cart was to go down to the market; we stripped the lavender flowers from the bushes in the garden and laid them on boards to dry in the sun under muslin. Mamma let us do what we liked, provided we got in our proper hours at the piano; and that was no hardship, for we always played better during the holidays, when there was not all that idiotic homework, and now that we were so well our fingers were twice as intelligent as usual. But as soon as we had all had our lessons Mamma joined us in this lovely, boastful, new, exciting work on the farm, though at first the farmer and his wife had kept her at a distance. We had seen her make another of those mistakes that made people think her odd, the morning after we got there. Gaily she had spilled on the kitchen table, in a jumble of Bank of Scotland notes and sovereigns, the whole amount she had contracted to pay for the six weeks of our holiday. The Weirs, bony, sandy, grave people, had looked at her with narrow and imbecile glances of suspicion. They could not understand why anybody should want to pay in advance when there was no need; and still less could they understand why a middle-aged woman should laugh like a young girl going to a ball when she did this uncalled-for thing. We understood. It was a delight for her to snatch this money from the mysterious force that acted on all money in our family, annulling it as if it had never been; it was such an indulgence as she had not enjoyed for years to make a payment and prevent it from being even for a moment a debt. But that could not be explained. We could see the Weirs thinking that she was probably a silly, feckless woman, who had only herself to blame for being so shabby. Soon it was all right. She helped Mrs. Weir one day in the dairy, she had learned to make butter when she was a child and it came back to her; and the rightness of her hands, which was as remarkable anywhere else as it was on the keyboard, proved to the countrywoman that she had been wrong. They began to like her even better than they liked us, and every day she seemed younger, and ate more, and her eyes did not stare so much.

But it did not last. Soon she looked ill again, and did not enjoy her food, and was milder with us when she gave us our lessons.

“What do you think is worrying her?” Mary asked me one day when we were picking runner beans in the kitchen-garden. Mamma had passed us with Richard Quin in her arms; I did not say so, but she had made me think of the new mare and its foal though she was still fierce and quick.

“Well, Papa has not written,” I said.

“I feel it’s that too,” said Mary. “But what I can’t understand is, why she ever thought he would.”

“Did you know he wouldn’t?” I asked.

“I thought he would probably forget.”

I did not like her having known better than myself what he was going to do.

“What I can’t understand,” Mary went on, “is that they never seem to get used to each other. Mamma is always surprised when Papa does things like not writing. And Papa is always surprised when Mamma wants to pay bills.”

“Yes, and Mamma minds so,” I said.

“That’s extraordinary,” said Mary.

But we were touching on a long-standing perplexity. We could see that Papa would take an intense interest in us, and that we would take an intense interest in him, because we belonged to the same family. And we could see that Mamma would take another sort of intense interest in us, and that we would give it to her back. But we could not see that Mamma and Papa could matter very much to each other, because they were not related.

“But, Mary, I have been rather wondering. What happens if Papa never writes?”

“If he doesn’t come back?”

“Yes.”

“I should die,” said Mary.

“So would I,” I said. I stood back from the beans and looked at the circle of green hills, which fused and wavered glassily through my tears. But they were there, they remained solid when I wiped away my tears. “But what would we do?” I asked.

“Oh, we could work, we could go into factories or shops or offices, or we could be servants, and between us we could make enough to keep Mamma and Richard Quin till he grows up,” said Mary.

“But I rather think there is a law forbidding people as young as us from working,” I said.

“We could cheat and say we were older than we are,” said Mary. “Everybody is always surprised when they hear our ages.”

“There is that,” I said.

“Anyway it will be all right,” said Mary. “Really all right. You see, we would go on working at the piano in the evenings and someday we would switch to being pianists, and after that it is going to be all right.”

“Oh, yes, of course, I’m not worrying,” I said, “and I think we have enough beans.”

Mamma had not seen us at work in the bean-row when she passed through the kitchen-garden, or she would not have looked desolate. Instead she would have looked as if she were a sick woman, posing for a photograph she meant to send to someone whom she intended to deceive concerning her health. She was thinking and staring again, but she smiled perpetually, she called out cheerful greetings to everybody she met as she went about the farm— “Another bright day again,” or, “Not so sunny, but we can do with a little coolness for a change”—often greeting the same person twice. The weather was calm around us; it was an unusually fine summer. The hills were calm around us; this was the highest farm on that spur of the Pentlands, nobody climbed to us, the August ramblers took a footpath that cut south of us to the main range, we saw them no nearer than the skyline. This calm made an unkindly frame to my mother’s restlessness, the people about the farm began to scrutinize her doubtfully again.

One afternoon I came out of the stable, a polished horse-brass blazing bright in my hand, and found her sitting on the stone dike that separated the paddock from the garden. The postman was due in about a quarter of an hour, and she was rocking backwards and forwards, not much, but more than would be natural unless she would feel herself abandoned if a letter did not come; I looked across the garden to the farm-house and thought I saw someone watching behind the lace curtains of the Weirs’ room. It was probably Mrs. Weir, who I had hoped would praise me for the brightness of the horse-brass. I was in part distracted by pity for Mamma, in part annoyed that things did not go easy with us as they did for other children and that I would not claim the thanks that I deserved. The great thing and the little thing were together in my mind, I wondered if I ought to be ashamed of that. I put the horse-brass down on the dike, and then, remembering how apt I was to lose things, picked it up and slipped it inside one of the knee-elastics of my knickers. I put my arms round Mamma’s neck and kissed her wild hair and whispered, “If you are worried because Papa has not written, why do you not telegraph to the newspaper offices in Lovegrove or to his uncles and people in Ireland? He must be at one of those two places.”

She whispered her answer. It was easier for us to pretend that none of this was happening if we did not speak aloud. “Rose, you are a thoughtful child.”

“Do you mean,” I asked bravely, “that we have not got the sixpence?”

“Oh, yes, we have the sixpence, thank God. But, you see, I do not want to let them know that Papa has not let us know where he is. They would think it strange.”

“Well, so it is,” I said.

“But not,” she contended hopefully, “strange in the way they would think it. Oh, there is nothing we can do, we must wait. And give him time, he will write. A letter may come this very afternoon.”

We kissed. She drew her lips away from mine to say, still whispering, “Do not tell the others.”

I was amazed at her simplicity.

Mary came out of the stable and looked across the yard and saw that something was wrong, and joined us. She said, “Mamma, do not wait for the post, it is Tuesday, nothing nice ever happens on a Tuesday,” and then stopped. Cordelia had begun to practise in her bedroom. We all three listened in silence while she played some scales. Then she broke off and repeated some bars of a melody. “It isn’t even like cats,” said Mary. “Cats don’t scoop.”

“Oh, children, children,” said Mamma. “You should not be so impatient with your poor sister. It might have been far worse, she might have been born deaf or blind.”

“That would not have been worse even for her,” said Mary; “she never would have known what was wrong with her, any more than she does now, and she would have gone to one of those big places with gardens for the deaf and blind one sees out of trains, and she would have been looked after by people who like being kind to the deaf and the blind. But there are no homes for bad violinists.”

“Homes for bad musicians, what a terrible idea,” said Mamma. “The home for bad contraltos would be the worst. People would be afraid to go near it at night, the sounds coming from it would be so terrible, particularly when the moon was full. And you children are unnecessarily unkind about your sister, indeed if I did not know you I would think you were spiteful. And really she is not so bad. She is not bad at all this afternoon. She is much better than she used to be. Heavens, how horrible that was! This is intolerable, I must go and try to help her, the poor child.”

She rushed up the garden path towards the farm-house, wringing her hands. A stranger would have supposed that so distraught a mother had just realized that her baby had been left alone in a room with an unguarded fire or a dangerous dog. Mary and I sat down on the dike, and when we began to swing our legs I became suddenly conscious of the horse-brass in my knickers. I found it had grown dim in its hiding-place, and I fell to rubbing it again.

“Listen, it is too silly,” said Mary coldly. There was sometimes nothing to listen to; Mamma could not play the violin, so she had to talk or sing her precepts. Between these patches of silence came Cordelia’s repetitions of her melody, always without improvement, but each time offering instead a new variation of error. “How can you laugh?” asked Mary through her teeth.

“Of course I’m laughing,” I said. “It’s funny when someone keeps on falling down on the ice, and this doesn’t even hurt Cordelia.”

I knew Mary through and through, I could feel her pondering over the possibility of scoring a point over me by pretending as she knew the teachers at school would have done, that she was too grown-up to think that someone falling down on the ice was funny, but I went on polishing my horse-brass. I could trust her to decide that that was not honest, she did think that someone falling down on the ice was funny, and anyway she did not want to score off me, not really much.

She said softly, suddenly, “Mrs. Weir is coming down the path. With that cousin of hers from Glasgow. They’re going to ask us questions.”

We knew that look. I kept my head down and went on polishing. Mary bent over me and pointed her finger at the brass as if she had just noticed the design. Mrs. Weir had to speak to us twice before we realized the two of them were there. “Excuse us!” we said, quite confused, standing up politely and simpering a little. We realized we were not the type which can dare to simper much, but what we could get of that particular advantage we seized.

“Your big sister’s a bonny fiddler,” said Mrs. Weir.

We said in sugared accents that she was.

“These bairns,” said Mrs. Weir, turning to her cousin, “are no so bad with the pianny. But they’re wee yet, they spend most of the time grinding away at exercises.”

All summer we had been infatuated with arpeggios. They dripped from our fingers, we had hoped, like oil.

“Maircy, do you let these bairns play your pianny?” asked the cousin from Glasgow. Her voice became hollow and alluded to the tomb. “Elspeth’s pianny?”

“Oh, they play well eneuch,” said Mrs. Weir. “I canna play the thing. Though I had lessons with Elspeth from the old body who cam oot from Edinburgh to teach the laird’s daughters, ma hands were aye like hams. Elspeth left me the thing well knowing that, just for a matter of sentiment. That,” she added, speaking as one who turns the knife in a wound, “and the apostle spoons.”

“She’d little else to leave that was worth having,” said the cousin from Glasgow sourly.

“I wouldna say that,” said Mrs. Weir. “I’m sure you think of the Coates shares she left every time you put a reel of cotton on your sewing-machine. But she left them neither to you nor to me but to poor Lizzie who had four bairns and a man killed at Omdurman.” Her eyes turned to the farm-house window from which Cordelia’s contention with her art was emitting an unsteady and polluted melodic line. “Has your Mamma wearied of waiting for her letter?”

We noted stoically that the consideration of Lizzie’s plight had immediately made her think of Mamma. We got into position, like two tennis players waiting for a serve, with knees slightly bent, racket held across the body, eyes ready for the ball. “No. She just went in to help Cordelia. Our music,” said Mary, smiling, “seems more important to her than anything.”

“But she’ll be fretting to hear from your Paw,” said the cousin from Glasgow, quite without finesse.

“Oh, yes,” we said carelessly. “Mamma,” I said, “isn’t used to being without Papa. He never goes away from home.” “Except,” said Mary, “to speak at political meetings, and then he is back the next day.”

“I wonder your Maw’s so anxious, then,” said the cousin from Glasgow.

We smiled again. “Well, she feels worried because she isn’t there to look after him,” I said. “He’s absent-minded, because he’s a great author.”

“Oh, your Paw’s a great author, is he?” said the cousin from Glasgow. “Tee hee. Tee hee. A great author like Robbie Burns?”

“No, like Carlyle,” said Mary.

“Im’hm,” said the cousin from Glasgow.

“I’ll explain how he’s like Carlyle if you would like to hear,” said Mary. This was a frightful lie, and I was terrified lest her bluff be called.

“No, it can wait,” said the cousin from Glasgow. “But he’s absent-minded. I see. So he’s not written to your Maw. Does he often not write?”

“Well, as he isn’t often away from home it isn’t us he wouldn’t write to, so we don’t know,” said Mary flatly, with the tired look of a child talking to a stupid grown-up.

“I must say we’ve never had a soul on the place that can get the horse-brasses so bright as these bairns,” said Mrs. Weir.

“I don’t know your Maw,” said the cousin from Glasgow, “but I’d think she was looking awful worried. About something.”

“Oh, she is worried,” I said. “She’s always worried about Papa.”

There was a silence, and Mrs. Weir began to say something more about the horse-brass on my lap, but the cousin from Glasgow said, with a grin dripping sweetness, “And why is your Maw worried about your Paw?”

“He is so terrible about money,” I said with the utmost simplicity. I felt Mary draw a deep breath, I felt Mrs. Weir stir uneasily, I kept my eyes steady on the eyes of the cousin from Glasgow.

“And how is your Paw terrible about money?” inquired the cousin from Glasgow, as light-hearted as might be, almost hilariously.

“Och, Jeanie, now—” Mrs. Weir began, but I cut in. “People send him cheques and he forgets to pay them into the bank. He leaves them all over the house.” I was not altogether lying. It had happened once.

“Or he does not open the envelope, and he puts it in his pocket, and there it stays,” said Mary. I felt great admiration for her. That had never happened. Not with a cheque.

“Once quite a big cheque came and Mamma found it in the wastepaper basket,” I said. “Papa had thought it was a circular.”

“A big cheque in the wastepaper basket! Losh save us! The puir woman!” said Mrs. Weir.

“A big cheque,” said the cousin from Glasgow. “Now how much would that be?”

“We wouldn’t ever know,” said Mary. “Papa and Mamma never talk to us about money. They don’t like being bothered with it. They think it’s vulgar.”

“Yes, they would like to give it away, if it were not for us,” I said.

Mrs. Weir and the cousin from Glasgow uttered cries of distress. “Give it away! Losh, what a fancy! And who would they give it to?”

“Why,” said Mary, again assuming the tired look of a child talking to a stupid grown-up, “to people who are poor.”

We had really done quite well, considering we had had no time for preparation. They hung over us in silent bewilderment, while I went on rubbing the horse-brass and Mary picked a long grass and sucked it and looked up at the white pillow clouds in the blue sky. Suddenly there was the whin of a bicycle bell and the two women exclaimed and wheeled about. We took a quick look while their backs were turned and saw that the postman had ridden into the yard. My eyes went back to the horse-brass, Mary stared up at the sky again.

“Oh, has the postman been!” Mary exclaimed when Mrs. Weir touched her on the arm and held before her a telegram addressed to my mother. We were careful to walk quite slowly with it to the farm-house, and we heard what the cousin from Glasgow said. “Well, a telegram costs sixpence and a letter costs a penny …” Her shrill voice trailed away, she could not think how to link on this consideration to the puzzling glimpse of our family which she had been given by two children who were, surely, too young to lie.

In the little bedroom Mamma was standing in an attitude of despair which struck me as excessive. Of course Cordelia could not play the violin, but Mary and I could play the piano. Surely that should be enough for her? But she was standing with her hands crossed on her bosom and her eyes staring wildly about her while she cried, “But anybody not an idiot must understand that tahatahatahahahahata is not the same thing as ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, which is what the composer wrote!” with a passion that would have been appropriate had she been a person in Shakespeare’s world declaring that she was going to tell the yet unknowing world how these things came about, so shall you hear of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts, of accidental judgments, casual slaughters, of deaths put on by cunning and forced cause. But her disorder was excused by the intact appearance of Cordelia, who was standing with her violin firmly held in her hand, a patient expression on her face. To her it seemed that she had been quietly practising in her room when Mamma had come into the room, and had been quite unable to understand what she was trying to do, for of course the composer would have preferred tahatahatahahahahata to ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, because it sounded prettier. I thought how nice it would be if I were a street child and could take a piece of chalk and write on a wall, “Cordelia is a fool.” It would do no good really, but it would be something.

Talking through Mamma’s cries, Mary said, “Papa has sent a telegram.”

Mamma was instantly still. She did not move to take it from Mary’s hand. “How do you know it is from Papa?” she asked in a thin voice.

“There isn’t anyone else, is there, who would send us a telegram?” I asked.

“No, you are right. We are quite alone,” she said, and took the telegram and opened it, and, reading the first words, was flooded by radiance, by hope, by certainty. “He is well, he has found us a house, he likes the office at Lovegrove—but he has gone to Manchester to settle important business with Mr. Langham.” The radiance, the hope, the certainty receded, they were not there. “To Manchester! To settle important business! With Mr. Langham! To Manchester, when he should be in Ireland, seeing his family! How will they ever take an interest in you children? To settle important business, but it will come to nothing! And with Mr. Langham! With Mr. Langham!”

“Who is Mr. Langham?” we asked.

“A little, little man,” she said. Then radiance and hope and certainty came back into her face, and she cried, “But your Papa has found us a house! I do wish I could have taken that trouble off him, with all he has to think of! I wonder what it will be like! There are some very nice houses in the London suburbs, your Papa has very good taste.”

“What, nice houses in London?” one of us said. We thought of it as a black, geometric place. But we were happy, we knew that she would contradict us, that she and Papa had created another place for us, as they had created Cape Town and Durban and Edinburgh and the Pentlands, where we were.

“Why, of course there are nice houses in London!” she cried. “There are nice houses in Paris, in Vienna, in Copenhagen, you will see them all, but first we will live in a nice house in London. You must not be disappointed if the rooms are not as big as they are in the Edinburgh flat, it is different in the south, but the brick houses they have down there are very pretty. And it will be nice not to be in a flat but to be in a house, it will have its own garden or be in a square, and that will be so good for Richard Quin, he will be able to sleep out as he is sleeping now—Is he all right? I had forgotten him.”

“Yes, yes,” said Cordelia proudly. “I have looked out of the window several times and he is lying quite quiet.”

“I wish your Papa had told us more.” She looked at the telegram and wailed. “He has not said where he is staying in Manchester. And he has not given the address of the new house. How will I be able to get the furniture sent on from the flat if I cannot tell the removal man where to send them? But he will write. Your Papa is always very much occupied, but he will write.”

We all knew that Papa would not write, yet for some days we believed that he would. It was the time when the heather flowered and the grey-green hills turned purple, and every hour a different purple. “It is like wine,” my mother used to say, her eyes strained upwards, Richard Quin running by her side and pointing and laughing. We grew neglectful of our work on the farm and ran up the footpaths to the moorland heights where we could walk and walk and see nothing from horizon to horizon but this flood of colour which was at once dry and resonant. Our hands could rub the heather to dust, it was poor starved fibre, yet the dyed field of it was rich like a bass chord sustained by the pedal. One day we took charge of Richard Quin as soon as our practising was over, and let Mamma go up and walk on the moors alone. She stayed up there so long that we grew frightened, but she came down through dusk, voluble with happiness, her hands full of strange grasses that we had not seen up there. Then we found a shoulder of moorland so low that we were able to get Richard Quin to it, and several times we took our lunch with us and lay on a purple ledge, pitted with a wet green circle where the bog-cotton was white like narcissus, and looked down on the checkered farmlands stretching north towards Edinburgh.

Once when we were all up there it was really hot, and Mary called to us, “We have not seen such sunshine since we left South Africa.” And Mamma, who had been bending over Richard Quin, giving back his laughter and tickling him with a stalk of heather, suddenly was rigid. At Durban she had not cared to hear us speak of Cape Town, and now we were in Scotland she did not care to hear us speak of South Africa. Without doubt, when we got to London she would like it better if we never spoke of Edinburgh. But were we going to London? If we did not know where Papa was we could not simply take a train to London and look for him, particularly in view of the possibility that he might, compelled by his strangeness, have stopped in Manchester. But if we did not go to him, what were we to do in Edinburgh? The flat would not be ours after the quarter-day, the landlord was taking it back, and somebody else was moving in; and anyway we would have no money. We lay on the ledge in silence, looking down on the plain, which in the strong noonlight looked insubstantial as a cloud, not solid earth at all, while Richard Quin kicked and laughed, and Mamma forced herself, stiff as a soldier, back to the game again.

One night about that time I woke and saw my sister Mary a white shape in the moonlit room, kneeling beside the door that led into Mamma’s bedroom, her ear close to the wood. I got up and joined her. We did not eavesdrop when things were going well, but there were times in our life when we had to know where we were. We heard the boards creak, Mamma was walking up and down, we heard her sigh. She muttered, “Dear Mr. Morpurgo, I wonder if you will ever—Dear Mr. Morpurgo, I do not think we have met, but I am sure you will forgive me if I write to you to ask—No. No. That is not the proper way. The great thing is to keep it light.”

We heard her pull a chair towards her. She settled into it and gave a little careless laugh. “Dear Mr. Morpurgo, You know that my husband is a genius. No. No. Dear Mr. Morpurgo, I know from your kindness to my husband that you must hold him in special esteem, and I dare to hope that, like me, you think him to be a genius. I dare to think that, like me, you believe him to be a genius.”

Now she was writing it down, that we knew from the way she spaced out the words. She was writing it in the half-light, so that she would not wake Richard Quin. It worried me very much that she must be doing what I was always being told I must not do, and spoiling her eyes.

“The ways of genius are not the ways of ordinary mortals, and so you will not be surprised to hear—” Now she spoke to herself. “Oh, why do I always have to bother, why is nothing ever simple. To think that there are women who when they move just have the things put in a van and go.” Now her other voice was used. “So you will not be surprised to hear that my husband”—she gave again that careless little laugh— “has gone to Manchester and has forgotten to send me his address, so though he constantly sends me telegrams I cannot reply. If you should know his address I should be obliged if—But it sounds so strange.”

She began to walk about the room again.

“Do I end ‘yours sincerely’ or ‘yours truly’? I cannot remember if I ever met the poor man. But anyway it sounds so strange. It will be dreadful if the people in the office know that he is strange before he starts. At least everywhere else it has taken them time to find out.”

Her whisper sounded as if she had a sore throat.

“Oh, I must leave it till the morning. And then perhaps a letter will come. Oh, I am like the children.”

When Mary and I got back into bed I was more worried about Mamma’s eyes and her throat than about our future. Indeed, I noted it against her, as a weakness which I looked on tenderly but had to recognize as a weakness, that she failed to realize that we were going to be all right. Cordelia might represent a difficulty. All teachers liked her, and that was ominous. Mary and I did not dislike school but we knew it was the opposite of the world outside, it was the grown-ups’ error of errors, they imagined they prepared children for life by shutting them up in a place where nothing happened as it did anywhere else. It might be hard for Cordelia to find her feet, but Mary and I would be all right. Only very rarely did we feel the panic we had felt on the purple ledge. The rest of the time we realized quite well that it was only a question of keeping going till we were able to earn a lot of money as pianists, and somehow we could manage till then. If Papa had not got us into the workhouse by this time, it was probable that he never would, and all that distressed us was Mamma’s failure to consider this cheering point, and her folly in sitting up at night, getting unhappy and spoiling her eyes by writing in the half-dark, probably with nothing over her nightdress, though she seemed to have a sore throat. I do not think I stayed awake very long. I know Mary fell asleep quite soon.

The next day it struck Mary and me, when we were carrying some hot tea up to some men working in a field below the pass, that it might be easier for Mamma to communicate with Mr. Morpurgo by telegram. It would at any rate cut out that adult nonsense about “yours sincerely” and “yours truly.” So at teatime we dropped some artless questions, asking Mamma how the removal man was to know where to send our furniture if she could not tell him our address in London. At that she sighed deeply, and Cordelia shook her head at us and frowned and hushed us, as well as kicking us under the table. It was like Cordelia to use both grown-up and childish means of expressing disapprobation, she was always on both sides if she could be. Afterwards she caught us in a passage and hissed at us, “Can’t you see poor Mamma is worried to death?” It was almost impossible to pull her hair, as her red-gold curls were so short and tight, and we knew all about the dangers of blood-poisoning, because Mamma’s brother had died of tetanus, so we never scratched, but practice had made us quite good at hitting her, and we got in several telling blows that time.

“And Mamma’s much too worried to be told we hit you,” said Mary unctuously.

“How mean!” breathed Cordelia.

“Isn’t it?” said Mary. “It is the sort of thing you would say.”

Cordelia made the gesture of despair which we had often seen her make before, and went away, saying vaguely, “I am the only one.”

The next afternoon Mary hung about Mamma, who was sitting in the garden while Richard Quin slept, till she heard the sound of the violin, and then said, “You know, Mamma, Rose is much the youngest of us girls.” We had thought it out together, so it was all right her saying that. “We all think of her being sensible, but really she is very childish in some ways, and it is showing now.” She went on to tell Momma that I was worrying about what was going to happen to our furniture. She said that I knew that we had given up the flat and that we could not go on living there because someone else was going to move in, and that I thought the removal man would just take the furniture to London and dump it down somewhere and that we would never find it. Mamma became agitated and said that she must speak to me about it and explain it was all right, and Mary said that that would not do because I had told her what was worrying me in confidence. Mamma accepted that. Mary and I had known she would. Also, passing her hand over her forehead, she said, “Besides, what can I say to the child?”

“Well, can’t you think of anything to do?” said Mary. “She cried all night, you know.”

“Oh, no!” wailed Mamma. “Oh, no! Not Rose!”

“Why don’t you send Mr. Morpurgo a telegram?” asked Mary.

“A telegram?” said Mamma. “Why, that would seem even stranger than a letter, and that will seem strange enough to Mr. Morpurgo when he reads it. But no. Why do I not try the newspaper office? Surely he will have told them where the house was when he took it. And I could say that the removal man wanted to know the address. And that I wanted plenty of time for them to turn on the gas. Yes. And the water. Then if they are in touch with your Papa they will tell him that I have telegraphed and we will know where he is too. And Rose will be all right anyway about the furniture. Yes, I will send the telegram today, I will give it to the postman. Answer prepaid. ‘My husband in Manchester has omitted give me address house he has taken please send must instruct removal man and gas and water immediately.’ Get me some paper and a pencil.”

When Mary brought them she began writing, then threw them on the grass. “This telegram would seem so much less strange if I could say your Papa was in Tibet.”

“Surely it would be strange if he was there, as the Tibetans don’t let anybody in?” said Mary, picking up the paper and the pencil. She really thought it was all being too much for Mamma.

“It is more difficult to communicate with your wife and family from Tibet than it is from Manchester,” said Mamma.

It all went very well, except that Mamma looked at me in bewilderment all that evening, and made Mary very uncomfortable by asking her if she was quite sure I had been crying at night, if she had not dreamed it all. “Oh, no, Mamma,” Mary said, her oval face as smooth as a silver teaspoon filled with cream, “I could not dream it night after night.” Of course it was no good, really. Mamma knew there was a lie somewhere. She knew the style of each of her children as she knew the styles of all the great composers. But at the same time she would never pose herself unnecessary questions about her children, any more than she ever cared to read much about the personal lives of the great composers. She judged us by our sum, and in any case the whole episode passed out of our minds the next day, when the postman brought the answer to the telegram. Papa had, it appeared, taken for us Number 21, Lovegrove Place, and Mamma need not see about the gas and water, for Mr. Morpurgo had given instructions that the house was to be cleaned and got ready so that the furniture could be moved straight into it. This news was supposed to give me back my unbroken nights, and it certainly did my mother that favour. She spoke of it every day. “But this is exceptional treatment. They did nothing like this for us when we came here, or when we went to Durban. Your father said that he did not think that Mr. Morpurgo wanted to see him. But that must have been a mistake. After what has happened at the Caledonian your father might well be sensitive. But he must be wrong over this, Mr. Morpurgo is being so very kind, and he can have no reason except that he is well disposed towards your father.” Absorbed in her development of this not unreasonable idea, she was no longer distressed by Papa’s continued failure to write to her.

There came a night when our story came true. I lay awake in the darkness and cried. But not because I was anxious about our fortunes. I had toothache. At first Mary and I were concerned lest this should be a divine judgment on me for deceiving Mamma, but as nothing had happened to Mary, and she had played the major part in the deception, we dismissed the thought. When we told Mamma in the morning she called me all the broad Scots pet names which always came from the back of her mind when we were ill or had hurt ourselves, and then she hurried out of the room and came back very quickly, for she moved faster than anybody I have ever known, stirring a bowlful of honey and hot milk. It was her panacea for every ailment, and it did in fact anaesthetize by distraction. She sent Cordelia and Mary down to breakfast, and sat down on my bed, and I enjoyed being alone with her, feeling the warm, invisible fluid of her love flowing out towards me, comforting me as the warm sweetness of the milk and honey comforted my mouth. She told me that she was sorry, she could not let me lie, I must soon get up and dress, for she had already arranged to hire the trap and we would drive down to the station and take the train to Edinburgh, and our dentist, who was sure to be back at work now it was September, would make time to see me.

“Your playing”—she sighed— “must just stand aside for the day.”

That was not what was worrying me. “Will this all cost a lot?” I asked.

“Oh, my poor lamb,” she answered, “what a thing for you to say! I talk too openly before you, I suppose. But do not think of that. An aching tooth is an aching tooth, and we will find the money for that. Do not think of the cost again. And indeed I will profit by this. The Australians left the flat last Monday, and I will take this opportunity to go in and see that everything is ready for the removal man. I would have gone and done this all alone, now I will have my lamb for company. How I wish I had smarter clothes, it is such a fine day! It will be nice for us when Richard Quin is grown, we will always have a man to go about with us. Though of course he will marry and we must let him live his own life. But you girls will have husbands by then, I hope. But anyway do not worry about the money, we have enough to get to London and a little over, and after that it will be all right, we will be better off than we have ever been before, as Mr. Morpurgo thinks so much of your father.”

I had slept so little in the night that I slept in the train, nuzzling against my mother’s shoulder. Though it was a mild autumn day she had wrapped me in a tartan shawl that was always brought out when we were ill. Milk and honey and that tartan shawl, they were our jujus, I had felt relief at the sight of it on her arm as she got into the trap. When we reached Edinburgh I awoke, feeling warm and babyish and contented, and the pain was so much less that I could hop with joy as we went along Princes Street, because of the splendour of the castle high on its rock over the trough of the green gardens, all the majesty of the city that lives more masterfully among its hills than Rome itself. But when I said, “Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it beautiful?” Mamma made no answer. She had always liked the two classical buildings that lie under the hill called the Mound which falls from the Old Town to Princes Street, the National Gallery and the School of Sculpture; she had once said that each was as neat as the new moon. I really did not know where I was. “Don’t you like the town any more?” I asked. “Don’t you think it’s looking beautiful today?” She answered meekly, as if I had accused her of a fault, “Oh, yes, Rose, of course it is beautiful. But you must excuse me, they have been so horrid to your Papa that I want to go away and never see it again.” I remembered she had not even liked going down to the beach during the last few weeks we were at Durban.

But she got better at the dentist’s. He liked her very much. We had all realized that long ago because each time we were shown into his surgery he was always standing in the middle of the room, well away from the chair, as if he were trying to look as unprofessional as possible, and his eyes always went to her face and never strayed to us. He always talked to her first, sometimes for quite a long time, and always laughed a lot, often repeating over and over again something she had said, although it did not strike us as funny and I usually found out afterwards that she had not meant it to be funny. And when we got into the chair he would always sigh as he bent over us and say, “Well, bairn, you’ll never be the man your mother is.” It struck me as a measure of my mother’s distressed state that for the first time she seemed to take pleasure in his company. It was as if she found it reassuring to be with someone who admired her. I supposed she was worried because her clothes were old. But she dutifully hurried him on till he had me in the chair, and when it was found that the source of my pain was an abscess under a tooth that needed just the faintest encouragement to come out, and I stood up, as well as I had ever been in my life, she thanked him and paid him his fee and took me out as quickly as might be.

She had, indeed, something on her mind. In the passage she bent down and kissed me and said humbly, “It must have shaken you, my poor lamb. You were very brave. But you must forgive me. I have not enough money left to take a cab all the way to the flat. We will have to take the tram up the Mound. Do you feel able for that? If you cannot do it we can rest here in the waiting room and take the early train back. Would you not rather do that? Tell Mamma.”

“I am all right,” I said, quite truthfully.

“You are sure?” she pressed me, and sighed with relief when I nodded. “I have to think of every penny,” she explained. “But,” she continued when we were out in the street, “you children must not worry. We will not starve, whatever happens. I promise you that. But just now I must scrape and save. It is difficult to explain, but you must trust Mamma.”

“Yes,” I said, “yes, Mamma.” But I did not trust her. I loved her. But I could see that she had been tripped by the snare of being grown-up, she lay bound and struggling and helpless.

The tram car rocked up the Mound with the free, camelish motion of trolley cars, swung round the curve at the top, and shambled over George the Fourth Bridge, the bridge that fascinated us children because it crossed no river but canyons of slums. Cordelia and Mary and I would be sorry to leave Edinburgh. The castle on its rock made us feel we were living in a fairy tale, we liked climbing the slopes of Arthur’s Seat, which was so like a couchant lion that it seemed quite unscientific to suppose it could be a natural mountain, and it had to be admitted that it was probably wizard’s work. Also these dark slums below the bridge ran under the open, stately city to Holyrood Palace, where darkness and light met, and the white star of Mary Queen of Scots was forever in opposition to the black star of John Knox. My heart swelled at the thought that we must presently leave all this, simply because it was our doom always to leave. I could have wept. I stroked Mamma’s hand and smiled up at her as grown-ups like children to smile, and I knew from her face that she was thinking, Rose is a contented child. We got out at the head of Meadow Walk, and as we went down it we saw the dark blocks of the infirmary among the reddening trees. We knew a woman medical student who talked of it with awe, as a cathedral of healing. Cordelia sometimes wanted to be a nurse and train there, and when she thought of that her face grew noble and stupid, but stupid in a nicer way than it was when she played the violin. Cordelia would mind leaving Edinburgh more than any of us. All her teachers admired her, they did at every school she went to, they made plans for her, they told her she had only to go on in a straight line and she would be where they wanted her to be, which was where she, with her intense desire for approval, would want to be. Our doom was hardest on her.

I turned to Mamma and said, “Next winter we will not be as cold as we were here last Christmas!”

Delighted, she said, “Why, I believe you are eager to go to London!”

“We all are,” I said. It was strange, Mamma was said to have second sight. A Scottish nurse we had in South Africa had said so; on the beach at Durban Mamma had once lifted up her voice because on a blank sea she had seen a small steamer go up in flames and boats row out towards the shore, and it had all happened as she had seen, twenty-four hours later. But we children could always deceive her. Had it not been so, we could not have provided for her happiness half as well as we did.

We came to the grey terrace where we lived, and walked past the house where we had a flat, because we had to make some purchases in the shops round the corner. “It is odd to pass our own front door without going in,” I said, and Mamma said, “I feel like that about leaving the city where I was born.” But she went on, “How happy I am. Your pain is over and the dentist said that all your other teeth were good, and I am doing something I dreaded, I did not want to come in from the Pentlands all alone and do this sad thing about going away from our flat, but now it does not seem sad at all.” She was happy in the shops, too. She liked the act of spending in itself; and although we bought very little that day, just enough to give us something of a midday meal, the smallest tin of cocoa for me, a quarter of a pound of tea for her, a quarter of a pound of sugar, some milk which our dairy gave us in a little metal can with a hoop handle—even so there were parcels, there was a sense that there was more on our side of the line than there had been before, and there were civilities with the shopkeepers. “I do not owe a penny anywhere,” she said proudly as we came out of the grocer’s, and then came to a halt by a bakery window. After loitering for a while she said timidly, “Rose, would you think me very greedy if I bought a doughnut? I have not had one for such a long time. And these look so very light.” This modest demand touched me by its contrast with the wonderful things to eat which Mary and I would give her when we had become famous pianists. I urged her to have one, and got her to add to it a cake of another kind that had mincemeat in it and a Christmas look.

As we went up the stairs to our flat we saw that the door of the flat on the other side of the landing was open, and that our caretaker, nice fat Mrs. McKechnie, was standing on the threshold, between her bucket and broom, unwrapping a bar of soap. She came forward to greet us, and in the dark well of the staircase, as she was a bundle of sacking and was wearing a black bonnet, nothing of her was visible except the white patches of her round face and her huge hands. I stood and stared at her, fascinated by the chiaroscuro, while she and Mamma exchanged amiabilities. It was like looking at the Man in the Moon, her features were vast and only vaguely illuminated, but one could recognize the expression. She seemed to be regarding Mamma very tenderly, and her rich voice, an oatmealy contralto that always gave us great pleasure, was telling us that she was redding up the Menzies’ flat against their return from Rothesay and would be there all the afternoon, and if Mamma wanted her she had only to tirl the bell.

“A nice woman,” said Mamma, letting herself into the hall. “I will send her a good present after a month or two in London when I see how the accounts stand.”

We dropped the parcels down on the kitchen table, and Mamma lit the gas ring, and poured some milk into a saucepan for my cocoa, and I put her doughnut and the other cake on a plate. “I knew it,” said Mamma, “they have left everything beautifully clean. I was sure they were nice people. But look. The mice are terrible. These old houses are all the same. But how lovely they are. These high rooms take in every bit of fineness the day will give them. I must just go to the drawing room and see if they have been polishing Aunt Clara’s furniture.”

Some minutes passed before she came back and sat down with her elbow on the table, her head on her hand. My milk had boiled, and I had made my cocoa. I was putting on the kettle for her tea.

“I will not want all that water,” she said. “Pour some away. It will never boil. I was not born to have much of anything. Even an excess of water would be grudged me. It would never boil.”

She was very pale and she was trembling.

When I had put the kettle back on the gas she said, “What has happened does not really matter to us. I cannot explain that to you now. But in a way it is of no consequence at all, although it matters more than you can imagine. Aunt Clara’s furniture has gone.”

I left her and went into the drawing room. It was on the side of the house away from the street, and its two tall windows looked south over the public park known as the Meadows. There was now nothing in the room but our Broadwood upright piano, dragged out to the middle of the floor, and the worn rose-coloured carpet that had come from my mother’s home, and the three big copies of family portraits on the walls, and millions upon millions of motes dancing in the bright emptiness. There had gone the round table supported by the three entwined dolphins, the chairs upholstered in green silk patterned with gold bees, the high desk with the swan mounts. I went into the dining room and saw that the sideboard flanked with the two swaddled nymphs and the chairs with the brass inlay had gone too. Those were just the things I at once remembered. Probably I had forgotten a lot of other things.

I ran back to the kitchen, crying, “Mamma, shall I run round to the police station and tell them we have been burgled?”

“But perhaps we have not been burgled, dear,” she said stupidly.

“They must have taken the things away in a van,” I said. “Mrs. McKechnie may know something about it.”

“She will know,” said my mother. “I am wondering how to ask her.”

“How to ask her?” I repeated.

My mother got out of her chair, very stiffly, and went out into the hall and stood for a time with her hand on the knob of the front door, her other hand across her mouth. Suddenly she opened the door and went out and crossed the landing to the still open door of the opposite flat and called, in mimicry of a happy woman, “Mrs. McKechnie! Mrs. McKechnie! When did the man come for the furniture?”

The rich voice answered from within that the man from Soames in George Street had sent for it the very day and hour he had said he would, when he came with Papa to buy it, just after we had left for the Pentlands.

“Then that’s all right!” Mamma said heartily. “I thought there might have been a mistake but my husband’s managed it all most efficiently.”

When we got back into the flat we closed the door softly and Mamma stood shuddering in the hall. She muttered to herself, “He will have sold it for a fraction of its value. Oh, I am getting old and ugly, but it is not that. I cannot compete with debt and disgrace, which is what he really loves.” She lifted her arms to embrace a phantom, but they fell by her side.