The Wax Fruit Trilogy Read online

  The door closed again. It had been no use going in just then, among these furies. But business was becoming brisk, more men and women came up the stair. The door opened and shut many times. Sometimes, indeed, it was allowed to stand open. Whisky went round freely. They did not bother to turn the key any more. The room was littered with people—stupefied beasts. But still the hag sat on a box by the fire, keeping watch, controlling in some measure her dreadful trade. At first she refused pulls of whisky when they were passed to her. But later Phœbe saw her take one or two.

  At last a man came up by himself. Two women greeted him. Each seemed to think him her special property. They began to fight, tearing each other’s hair. The room went into an uproar. Foul bodies were exposed but Phœbe did not see. She was nothing now but an instinct, calculating its chances to snatch. A little, predatory animal, lurking outside in the darkness.

  Now in the turmoil she saw what she wanted. The old woman had risen to interpose. In the fight she was thrust screaming against the wall. For the moment Arthur was forgotten. It was lucky he was near the fire. Even in drink they knew to keep away from that. Phœbe slid into the room.

  Several times she was crushed by the onlookers as they swayed out of the way of the fighters.

  She picked up Arthur and, shielding him as best she might, carried him from the room.

  Down the stairs, as quickly as she could. A broken bottle had cut her foot, but she did not feel it. Into the yard. The passage was blocked with people, but she pushed past them. She did not hear their senseless oaths. To them she was merely a slum child carrying another. The pandemonium of the Saturday night Saltmarket was at its height, but she did not notice. Several times she tried to speak to policemen, but their hands were full. They would not stop to listen to this filthy girl with the dirty, white-faced child.

  Now she was at the Cross. For an instant she halted. Arthur was very heavy for her. She set him down for a moment to think. She would make along the Trongate until she came to a quiet part. At length she came to Glassford Street and turned up. In Ingram Street it was peaceful. She set down Arthur again. His weight was killing her. For the first time she became aware of her foot. She saw it was bleeding freely.

  “Walk, Arthur. Walk with Phœbe.” It was the first time she had spoken to him.

  But the child merely gave bewildered whimpers and held up his arms.

  A policeman passed. She crossed to speak to him, planning to use her usual voice, to tell where she lived, and so prove that she was not what she seemed.

  But he turned upon her. “Away hame. Away oot o’ this.” He had had enough of slum rats and their stories.

  There was nothing to do but summon all her strength and try to pick up Arthur. Now she was on the low, flat part of Montrose Street. Now at George Street. She set him down once more and looked up the hill. How would she ever get him up there?

  She stood, leaning against the wall for what seemed an eternity. She made attempts to encourage herself. Had she not done what six policemen had failed to do? Arthur had said that there were places where no respectable man dare show himself. She had dared. But her pulsing head was past encouragement.

  They would be so angry with her for going. … Still she had had to go for Arthur. … She couldn’t help it. … She had had to go. And now she must just collect herself and try to make Ure Place. She took Arthur by the hand and dragged him. He began to howl, but she paid no attention. At least, she was getting him to walk. Here was Richmond Street. That was half-way. All was dark. Respectable folk were asleep. She sat down with Arthur on a doorstep to gather strength for the last effort. Arthur’s little teeth were chattering as he cried, for he was wrapped in nothing but a bit of sacking.

  And now the last effort. Up. Up the steepest part of the hill. She must get there even if she went mad. Now the lower side of Ure Place. Everything was dark but their own house. She could see it through the shrubbery that filled the middle of the square. Its windows were blazing. The door was open, too. Restless figures were haunting the threshold. She moved to get a better view. Against the light she saw the shapes of Bel and David.

  With a final effort she gathered the remainder of her strength to shout as loudly as she could.

  “Bel! Bel!”

  In a moment more her brother David had lifted her up from the pavement, senseless.

  Chapter Eleven

  IT was Christmas Day, an event which was then given little importance by the country folks in Scotland, for New Year’s Day was—as indeed, it still is—the winter feast day. It was the towns, less traditional and less grim, that first became infected by the cheerful spirit of the English Christmas.

  But on this dark morning the Laigh Farm was an exception to the rule. Its kitchen, at least, was filled with the Christmas spirit. The great fire, re-lit hours ago, flamed red and cheerful, glowing into every corner and defying the frosty, half-hearted daylight outside. The plates stacked on the scrubbed dresser, on the opposite wall, glittered and blinked. And there was holly about. Along the top of the dresser. Up beside the plates that were put there for ornament. In a white jug on the high mantelshelf. Between the pair of china dogs and the pair of tea canisters, bearing portraits of the young Queen and the Prince Consort. Over the large new portrait of the middle-aged Queen, that last summer Phœbe had persuaded Mungo to buy from a traveller at the door—simply because he had looked tired, and had appealed to her feeling for lame ducks. Over the grandfather clock that placidly ticked out the life of the Laigh Farm in another corner. The farm-women called all this holly Phœbe’s nonsense. For it was Phœbe, versed now in the customs of the town, who had put it about.

  Phœbe was an indulged young lady these days. A cloth was laid over one end of the great scrubbed table and breakfast was laid—still awaiting her august arrival, though it was almost nine o’clock. There were parcels, too, by her plate—Christmas presents from the family in Glasgow.

  Jean bustled in from work outside. She was a stout, pleasing figure now, with her glowing cheeks, her coats kilted for work, her drugget apron, and her Annan clogs. She took down a frying-pan from its hook and began to bang about.

  “Guidsakes,” she said to herself, “is that lassie never up yet?”

  She opened a door to call, but was met by Phœbe coming in.

  “Good morning, Jean.”

  “Guid-mornin’. A wis comin’ tae look for ye. It’s nine o’clock.”

  “Well, here I am.” Phœbe was a little spoilt and pompous, for she had been ill. Her face was still pale a little, and now and then a nervousness in her movements, a haunted look, betrayed the fact that she had passed through an ordeal beyond her strength.

  “They things are fur yer Christmas,” Jean said, indicating the parcels.

  Phœbe, forgetting her dignity, ran to the table. She looked through the parcels and the names of the givers. She had never had so many. Why were they all making such a fuss this Christmas, she wondered. Everybody seemed to want to give her something. All the brothers and sisters. And here was a parcel from Jean and Gracie. Tactfully she opened it first. A box of “Edinburgh Rock”, several pink and white sugar mice with string tails, and a little hymn book.

  “Oh, Jean, these are lovely!” And the inevitable Scots remonstrance, “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “Och, they’re jist some bits o’ things,” Jean said self-consciously as she took Phœbe’s porridge from the fire and poured it into a bowl.

  “Is Gracie in the milk-house?” Phœbe ran to thank her, and brought her back into the kitchen.

  The two devoted women were all eagerness to see the other presents as Phœbe undid them. A beautiful workbox from Bel with wools and canvas for a sofa cushion, already “begun” to indicate the correct colours. Books from Arthur. Indoor games from Sophia and William, and a new book to hold scraps from Wil and Margy. An expensive, handsomely illustrated book of religious stories from Mary and George. A book of quadrilles and lancers and a bottle of scent from David (Phœbe was
to spend the remainder of her holiday drenched in this).

  The women went into greater raptures than Phœbe did, especially over the coloured wools.

  Phœbe sat down to her porridge feeling very important indeed.

  As Jean changed her plate, and set her ham and eggs before her, Mungo came in, and the two women left the kitchen. He was still very lame and used crutches. He lowered himself down into his big chair by the fire. His two dogs curled themselves up under the table at Phœbe’s feet. She wished him a Merry Christmas, and pointed to her presents.

  He smiled good-naturedly. “Aye, ye’ve done very well.” He thrust his hand in his pocket and drew out an envelope. “And that’s from me,” he said, adding, “Ye see, I couldn’t get to buy you anything.”

  The envelope contained a gold half-sovereign. Phœbe thanked him, pleased but embarrassed.

  “That’ll do fine for your bank.” A rather bleak suggestion, Phœbe thought. But he tempered it by saying: “Unless there’s anything particular you’re wanting.”

  Controlling herself, Phœbe said demurely that she thought there might be, but she would keep it and see; then settled down again to her breakfast.

  II

  “I’ve got something else here for ye,” Mungo said presently, pulling out a neat little parcel and holding it out to his sister. “They said I was to take charge of it and give it to you myself.”

  Phœbe came across and took it from him. “What is it?”

  “Open it and see.”

  When she had taken off the wrapping-paper she came upon a small cardboard box, bearing upon its lid the name of a well-known Glasgow jeweller. And inside this was a still smaller black-grained box. Phœbe took it out and opened it. There, mounted on a red-velvet mount, was a handsome lady’s gold watch, surrounded by coils of fine golden chain and handsomely engraved with the initials “P. M.”

  She looked bewildered. “Where did this come from?” she asked her brother, who had been sitting watching her.

  “Open and see.”

  She opened it. On the inside were the words: “From Arthur Barrowfield Moorhouse to his Aunt Phœbe. Saturday, 21st November, 1874.”

  Phœbe said nothing. She turned the watch about, examining it closely. But her brother could see a deep flush. Bel and Arthur must have bought this for her. At length she put it back into its case, twined the long chain into place, and closed the lid.

  “It’s a nice watch, isn’t it?” Mungo hazarded.

  “Yes.”

  He could not tell what was going on inside her head. She must realise, of course, that the date marked the day on which she had brought her nephew back from Hughie’s Yeard. He tried again to make her speak. “Will I keep it safe for ye?”

  “Yes.” She came over and handed it back to him.

  They had all been puzzled, even the comprehending Bel, though the family was, in fact, behaving strictly according to her orders. Phœbe, indeed, was living in the middle of a conspiracy of silence.

  When she had come to her senses again on that November Saturday night, she had found herself in her own bed with Sophia and the family doctor standing over her. Sophia, who was holding her hand, smiled when she opened her eyes. “Yes, dearie, it’s me.”

  Phœbe looked about her wildly. “Is Arthur all right?”

  “Yes. Yes. His mother’s with him. He’s all right.”

  After they had got her clean and made her drink hot milk, she lay restless. The cut in her foot was pulsing. She could smell carbolic. Sophia sat by her watching. “Are you all right now?” she asked presently.

  Phœbe turned her head and looked at her sister. “I would like to speak to Bel.”

  “I’ll get her.”

  Bel came, bent over Phœbe and kissed her. The child could see tears in her eyes. “Do you want to say something to me, Phœbe?”

  Phœbe nodded, then raised herself to look about.

  Bel, grasping her meaning, reassured her. “It’s all right. There’s nobody here but ourselves.” She shut the door.

  “Bel, will you promise to tell nobody where I’ve been?”

  “But, Phœbe, why?” Bel was utterly bewildered.

  “You see,” Phœbe went on, “I had to get Arthur. The more bad things I saw, the more I knew I had to stay till I could bring Arthur with me.”

  “Of course, dear. You should be proud. Why not tell people?” But she could not get Phœbe to respond.

  “I saw—I saw—” Phœbe’s voice trailed off. But her look and her tone opened up vistas.

  “Don’t tell me what you saw Phœbe, unless, sometime, you feel you want to. We’ll all forget about it. I’ll tell Arthur. Nobody else. And we’ll never talk to you about it again.”

  Phœbe looked relieved. “Does Sophia know where I’ve been?” she asked presently.

  Bel nodded. “I think perhaps she guessed. But she won’t tell anybody either.”

  These promises seemed to calm her, and it was not long before exhaustion called her into uneasy sleep. Bel stood by her bed wondering. What kind of mark had the experience of the night laid upon the spirit of this strange child whose wilfulness had so often sorely tried her? And now in a burst of mad courage she had paid her back for her trouble a thousandfold, without, it seemed, even realising that she had done it. There was nothing, Bel told herself, that she would not do for Phœbe for bringing back her son safely.

  But in the days that followed, the days of getting well, Phœbe continued to puzzle her sister-in-law. She kept imploring Bel to keep people away from her. She would see no one. It was as though the child had submitted to some shame in order to rescue her nephew. A shame which even such a motive could not wipe out.

  The little boy, apart from lingering night fears and a bad cold, was very little the worse; but Phœbe’s was a much more difficult condition. It seemed, at first, as though the slums had laid their blight upon her. Her round face was pinched, and her steady Celtic-blue eyes seemed almost shifty. If she heard a visitor in the hall below she got out of bed and locked her bedroom door.

  Bel and Arthur, passionately anxious now to do their best for her, were at their wits’ end. But when the time came for her to be about again it was Phœbe herself who solved their problem.

  “Bel,” she asked, “am I to go back to school?”

  “Not until after Christmas. And only if you feel well enough.”

  “I would like to go and stay at the Laigh Farm.” And then, scrutinising Bel’s smiling and much-relieved face: “You haven’t told Mungo, have you?”

  Bel continued to smile. Without hesitation she lied to Phœbe, placidly and radiantly. “Of course not. What would I tell Mungo for? I think the Laigh Farm would just be the very place for you.”

  And so it came that Arthur took her down in a few days’ time, cautioning everyone who was likely to come into contact with her against making mention of her exploit.

  The entire Moorhouse clan buzzed with talk, of course. Mary agreed that Phœbe had been splendid, but added that no doubt little Arthur would have been quietly turned into the street on the next morning and been little the worse as other children who had been kidnapped for their clothes invariably were. Sophia told Wil and Margy that Phœbe was a heroine, then realising that she had gone too far, refused to say any more and was forced to tell them she would whip them if they kept on asking questions. There were many discussions, too, about Phœbe’s curious shame over the episode. Sophia said indiscreetly that she could just imagine what Phœbe must have seen. Mary looked so shocked that Sophia should claim any such powers for her imagination that Sophia squirmed a little and said, “Well—not exactly.” At which Mary looked at Bel and said, “We hope not.” Then Mary said she thought it would be a good idea if they all three prayed every night that their little sister’s soul should be cleansed. Bel nodded a pious acquiescence, but felt in her heart that the air of the Laigh Farm was probably having much the same effect.

  III

  Jean came back to the kitchen and began to clea
r away. Phœbe came over and sat herself opposite Mungo. He watched her as she busied herself with the wools and canvas Bel had given her.

  “Why are ye taking out the bit that’s done already?” he asked presently.

  “Because I want to do it my own way.”

  “But that’s to show ye the right colours.”

  “I want to decide my own colours.”

  Queer, dour wee thing, with her black hair sternly controlled, her curls pushed back by the large round comb, her wide, braided serge dress spread about her, and her feet crossed on the hassock. There were a lot of things she would want to decide for herself as she grew up.

  All at once the dogs got up from beneath the table and began to grumble. “There’s somebody coming in. See who it is, Phœbe,” he said, regretting his lameness.

  She rose and went to the window, looking into the farm close. “It’s a lady, with a brown dog, carrying a basket.”

  “It’ll be Miss Ruanthorpe.”

  “Miss Ruanthorpe of the Big House?”

  “Aye.” Mungo shifted restlessly in his chair.

  “Why is she coming here?”

  “She comes often. She’ll want me to tell her what to do with some o’ her ponies.”

  In a moment Gracie came back, followed by a lady and a brown spaniel, at which Doon and Nith continued to show fangs, until they had to be ordered from the kitchen. “Here’s Miss Ruanthorpe,” she said. And Phœbe, with the innocent lynx eyes of a child, saw Jean and Gracie exchange the ghost of a smile.

  She was rather an authoritative lady, Phœbe thought, as she took in her strong muddy boots, her rough tweed clothes and her rather mannish hat of the same stuff, skewered to her thick brown hair with several hatpins. Her skin was weather-beaten, but she had fine eyes and flashing teeth.

  “Don’t get up, Mr. Moorhouse. I haven’t come to disturb you. How’s the leg? Getting on? That’s good. I’ve just come in to wish you a Merry Christmas.”