The Judas Tree Read online

  Unlike the usual station buffet, this was unexpectedly well-ordered and arranged. Four round marble-topped tables occupied the scrubbed boards, there were coloured views of the Highlands upon the walls and, at the far end, a polished mahogany counter behind which hung an oval mirror advertising Brown and Polson’s self-raising flour. Before the mirror a young woman was standing with her back towards him, surprised in the act of putting on her hat. Mutually arrested, immobile as waxwork figures, they gazed at each other in the glass.

  “When is the next train for Winton?” He broke the silence, addressing her reflection in a tone which failed to conceal his annoyance.

  “The last train’s gone. There’s nothing now till the Sunday-breaker.” She turned and faced him, adding mildly: “Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Where’s the porter then?”

  “Oh, Dougal’s away home this good half hour. Did you not meet him on the road?”

  “No . . . I didn’t . . .”. He suddenly felt stupidly faint and leaned sideways to support himself against a table, a movement which brought his injured leg into view.

  “You’ve hurt yourself!” she exclaimed, coming forward quickly. “Here now, sit down and let me see it.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, rather dizzily, finding his way to a chair. “Superficial laceration of the popliteal area. The motor-cycle . . .”

  “I thought I heard a bit of a bang. It’s a nasty gash, too. Why didn’t you speak up at once?”

  She was hurrying to get hot water, and presently, kneeling, she had bathed and cleaned the wound and bound it neatly with strips of torn-up napkin.

  “There!” On a note of accomplishment she rose. “If only I had a needle and thread I could stitch up your trouser leg. Never mind, you’ll get it done when you’re home. What you could do with now is a good cup of tea.”

  “No . . . really . . .”, he protested. “I’ve been a complete nuisance. . . . You’ve done more than enough for me.”

  But she was already busy with the taps of the metal urn on the counter. He had undoubtedly had a shake, and the hot strong tea made him feel better. Watching him with interested curiosity she sat down. Immediately the cat jumped into her lap and began to purr. She stroked it gently.

  “Lucky Darkie and me weren’t away. There’s few enough folks around Craigdoran this early in the year.”

  “Or at any other time?” He half smiled.

  “No,” she corrected him seriously. “When the fishing and shooting are on we have a wheen of fine customers. That’s why my father keeps this place on. Our bakery is in Ardfillan. If you like we could give you a lift there. He always fetches me at the weekend.” She paused thoughtfully. “Of course, there’s your bike. Is it badly smashed?”

  “Not too badly. But I’ll have to leave it here. If they’d put it on the Winton train it would be a big help. You see, it’s not mine. It belongs to a fellow at the hospital.”

  “I don’t see why Dougal couldn’t slip it in the guard’s van as a favour. I’ll speak to him first thing Monday. But if your friend’s in the hospital he’ll not be needing it for a while.”

  Amused at her conclusion he explained:

  “He’s not a patient. A final year medical student, like me.”

  “So that’s it.” She laughed outright. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have been so gleg at the bandaging.”

  Her laughter was infectious, natural, altogether delightful. There was something warm about it, and about her, due not only to her colouring—she had reddish brown hair with gold lights in it and soft brown eyes, dark as peat, set in a fair, slightly freckled skin—but to something sympathetic and outgiving in her nature. She was perhaps four years younger than himself, not more than nineteen, he guessed, and while she was not tall, her sturdy little figure was trim and well proportioned. She wore a tartan skirt, belted with patent leather at the waist, a home-knitted grey spencer, smart well-worn brown brogues, and a little grey hat with a curlew’s feather in the brim.

  A sudden awareness of her kindness swept over Moray, for him a rare emotion. Yes, she had been decent—that was the word—damned decent to him. And, forgetting the nagging discomfort of his knee and the greater calamity of the damage to his only suit, he smiled at her, this time his own frank, winning smile, that smile which had so often served him through hard and difficult years. Although he had a good brow, regular features, and a fresh skin, with fine light brown naturally wavy hair, he was not particularly good-looking in the accepted sense of the word; the lower part of his face lacked strength. Yet the smile redeemed all his defects, lit up his face, invited comradeship, was filled with promise, expressed interest, understanding and concern at will, and above all radiated sincerity.

  “I suppose you realise,” he explained, “how grateful I am for your extreme kindness. As you’ve practically saved my life, may I hope that we’ll be friends? My name is Moray—David Moray.”

  “And I’m Mary Douglas.”

  A touch of colour had come into her cheeks but she was not displeased by this frank introduction. She took the hand he held out to her in a firm clasp.

  “Well now,” she said briskly, “if you like to wheel your bike in here I’ll take Darkie and lock up. Father’ll be here any minute.”

  Indeed, they had barely reached the road outside when a pony and trap appeared over the brow of the hill. Mary’s father, to whom Moray was introduced, with the full circumstances of his mishap, was a slight little man with a pale, perky face, hands and nails permanently ingrained with flour, and the bad teeth of his trade. A wisp of hair standing up from his forehead and small, very bright brown eyes gave him an odd, bird-like air.

  After turning the pony with practised clickings of his tongue, and studying Moray with shrewd, sidelong glances, he summed up Mary’s recital.

  “I’ve no use for these machines myself, as ye may observe. I keep Sammy, the pony, for odd jobs, and I’ve a good steady Clydesdale to draw my bread van. But it might have been worse. We’ll see ye safe on the eight o’clock train from Ardfillan. In the meantime, yemaun just come back and have a bite with us.”

  “I couldn’t possibly impose on you any more.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mary said. “You’ve got to meet the rest of the Douglases—and Walter, my fiancé. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to get acquainted with you. That’s to say,” as a thought occurred to her, “if your folks won’t be anxious about you.”

  Moray smiled and shook his head.

  “No need to worry. I’m quite on my own.”

  “On your own?” Douglas inquired.

  “I lost both my parents when I was very young.”

  “But ye’ve got relations, surely?”

  “None that I have any need of, or that ever wanted me.” The baker’s look of sheer incredulity deepened Moray’s smile, caused him to offer a frank explanation. “I’ve been alone since I was sixteen. But I’ve managed to put myself through college one way and another, and by being lucky enough to win an odd bursary or so.”

  “Dear me,” reflected the little baker, quietly but with real admiration. “That’s a maist commendable achievement.”

  He seemed to ponder the matter as they jogged along. Then, straightening himself, he began with increased cordiality to point out and describe the features of the countryside, many of which, he asserted, were associated with the events of 1314 that preceded the battle of Bannockburn.

  “Father’s a great reader of Scots history,” Mary confided to Moray in apology. “There’s few quirky things he can’t tell you about Bruce, or Wallace, or the rest of them.”

  They were now approaching Ardfillan and Douglas drew on the shoe brake to ease the pony as they came down the hill towards the old town lying beneath on the shore of the Firth, shimmering in the hazy sunset. Avoiding the Esplanade, they entered a network of quiet back streets and pulled up before a single-fronted shop with the sign in faded gilt: James Douglas, Baker and Confectioner;
and beneath, in smaller letters: Marriages Purveyed; and again, smaller still; Established 1880. The place indeed wore an old-fashioned air, and one that seemed scarcely, prosperous, since the window displayed no more than a many-tiered model of a wedding cake, flanked by a pair of glass urns containing sugar biscuits.

  Meanwhile the baker had sheathed his whip. He shouted:

  “Willie!”

  A bright young boy in an oversized apron that reached from heel to chin ran out of the shop.

  “Tell your aunt we’re back, son; then skep round and give me a hand with Sammy.”

  With considerable skill Douglas backed the pony through the adjacent narrow pend into a cobbled stable yard.

  “Here we are then,” he announced cheerfully. “Take your invalid upstairs, Mary. I’ll be with ye the now.”

  They went up by a shallow curving flight of outside stone steps to the house above the shop, where a narrow lobby gave entrance to the front parlour, furnished in worn red plush with tasselled curtains of the same material. In the centre of the room a heavy mahogany table was already set for high tea, and a coal fire glowed comfortably in the grate, before which a black sheepskin rug spread a cosy, tangled pelt. Darkie, released from Mary’s arms, immediately took possession of it. She had taken off her spencer, now seemed at home in her neat white blouse.

  “Sit down and rest your leg. I’ll run down for a wee minute and see to things. We close at six this evening.” She added, with a touch of pride: “Father doesn’t go in for the Saturday night trade.”

  When she had gone Moray eased himself into a chair, acutely aware of the strangeness of this dim, warm, alien room. A coal dropped quietly to the hearth. From a dark corner came the measured tick-tock of a grandfather clock, unseen but for the glint of firelight on its old brass dial. The blue willow-pattern cups on the table caught the light too. Why on earth was he here, rather than bent strainingly over Osler and Cunningham in the cramped attic that was his lodging? He had taken a spin to clear his head—his one practical concession to leisure—before settling down to a long weekend grind. But with his final examination only five weeks away it was lunacy to waste time here, in this unprofitable manner. And yet, these people were so hospitable, and the food on the table looked so damned inviting. With his money running out it was weeks since he had eaten a proper square meal.

  The door opened suddenly and Mary was back, carrying a tea tray and accompanied by a stout, dropsical-looking woman and a tall, thin man of about twenty-six or seven, very correct in a dark blue suit and high stiff collar.

  “Here’s some more of us,” Mary laughed. “Aunt Minnie and,” she blushed slightly, “my intended, Mr Walter Stoddart.”

  As she spoke her father appeared with the boy, Willie, and after the baker had muttered a quick grace, they all sat down at table.

  “I am led to believe,” Stoddart, who, while Mary poured the tea, had been served first with cold ham and great deference by Aunt Minnie, now addressed himself to Moray with a polite smile, “that you have had a somewhat trying experience. I myself had a somewhat similar adventure on the Luss road when a boy. When was it now, let me see, ah, yes, in nineteen oh nine, that hot summer we had. I was just thirteen years of age and growing fast. A push bicycle, naturally, in that era, and a punctured tyre. Fortunately I sustained nothing more serious than an abrasion of the left elbow, though it might well have been a tragedy. May I trouble you for another sugar, Mary. You know, I think, that my preference is for three lumps.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Walter dear.”

  Stoddart, evidently, was regarded, not only by himself, but by the family, as a person of definite importance. And presently Aunt Minnie, who seemed his chief admirer, conveyed to Moray in a whispered, wheezy aside that Walter was the Town Clerk’s son, with a splendid position in the accounts department of the Gas Department—a real catch for Mary, she supplemented with a meaning, satisfied nod.

  The situation intrigued Moray, provoked his sense of humour. Walter’s excruciating mannerisms, his condescension towards the Douglases exercised, with all the stiff assertiveness of the small-town bureaucrat, even the ostrich-like convulsion of his long thin neck when he drank his tea—all these gave promise of entertainment. While doing full justice to the good things on the table, it amused him to cultivate Stoddart, playing a little on his vanity, and at the same time defining his own position, as coequal, by relating, in a racy style, some of the more interesting aspects of his work in the out-patient’s department of the Infirmary. It was not long before he was rewarded by indications of Walter’s growing esteem. Indeed as the meal drew to its close, Stoddart took out his gold watch and clicked it open—this was another and frequent mannerism—meanwhile favouring Moray with a toothy smile.

  “It’s a great pity I am obliged to leave you so soon. I’m escorting Mary to the Band of Hope Social. Otherwise I should have been delighted to have more of your company. However, I have a suggestion. I am of the opinion that it would be highly irregular for you to convey your motor-cycle to Winton without a ticket, sub rosa, as the saying is, in the manner indicated to me by Mary. It might expose you to all sorts of pains and penalties. After all, the North British Railway does not frame its code of bylaws for fun! Huh, huh! Now what I propose,” he smiled hospitably around the table, “is that our friend Moray secure the spare part in Winton, travel down next weekend, fit the part, and drive the machine back. This, naturally, will afford us the opportunity of meeting with him again.”

  “What a good idea,” Mary glowed. “Why on earth didn’t we think of it.”

  “We, Mary?” queried Walter, repocketing the watch with dignity. “I fancy that I . . .”.

  “Ay, ye’re a knowledgeable chap, Walter. I don’t know what we’d do without ye,” interposed the little baker, glancing towards Moray with an ironic twinkle, which indicated that he did not altogether subscribe to the prevailing view of Stoddart’s accomplishments. “Come by all means, lad. Ye’ll be verra welcome.”

  It was settled, then, and when Mary rose to put on her hat and coat and, accepting the invitation of Walter’s crooked arm, was led off by him to the Church Social, she smiled at Moray over her shoulder.

  “We’ll see you next Saturday, so I won’t say goodbye.”

  “Nor will I.” Walter bowed. “I hope to have the pleasure of your further acquaintance.”

  Half an hour later Moray left for the station. Willie, who had listened with bright eyes to his stories of the hospital, insisted on accompanying him.

  Chapter Two

  Moray’s lodging was a small room at the top of a back-to-back tenement near the Blairlaw Docks. The neighbourhood, shut in by a disused city dump known locally as the Tipps, was undoubtedly one of the poorest in Winton. Ragged, rickety children played on the broken, chalk-marked pavements while the women stood gossiping, in shawl and cap, outside the “close-mouths”. On every street there was a pub or a fish-and-chip shop, while, through the Clydeside fog, the three brass balls of the pawnbroker beckoned irresistibly. Tugs hooted from the river and incessant hammering came from the repair yards. The district was certainly not a pleasure resort, but by cutting over Blairhill into Eldongrove it was within reasonable walking distance of the University and the Western Infirmary. Above all, it was cheap.

  The brief though striking account Moray had given Baker Douglas of himself was thus, in some respects, though not in all, the truth. The first twelve years of his life, as an only child of indulgent middle-class parents, had been normal; never affluent, but easy and comfortable. Then his father, local agent of the Caledonia Insurance Company in Overton, had come down with influenza, contracted, it was thought, during his door-to-door collections. For a week his wife nursed him while he grew worse. A specialist was called in, and abruptly the diagnosis was altered to typhoid fever, but not before she, too, had contracted the disease. Within the month David found himself thrown upon a distant relative, the widowed half-sister of his mother, a burden accepted unwillingly, an unwan
ted child. For four years young Moray had undoubtedly suffered neglect, eaten the bitter bread of dependence, but at the age of sixteen an educational policy, prudently taken out by his father, had come into force. It was not much, sufficient only for fees, and a bare subsistence, but it was enough and, helped by a sympathetic schoolmaster who recognised unusual possibilities in his pupil, he had entered for the medical curriculum of Winton University.

  But this providential provision was something which Moray, from motives of expediency, or a natural tendency to dramatise his own efforts, sometimes conveniently forgot. With his diffident charm that made most people take to him on sight, it was agreeable, and often helpful, to hint at the tight corners he had been in, the shifts and evasions he had been forced into, the indignities he had endured—shaking the fleas from his trouser ends, using the public convenience on the stair-head, washing his own shirt, eating chips from a greasy newspaper, sustained only by a heroic determination to raise himself out of the ruck and attain the heights.

  Admittedly there had been diversions, occasional meals at the home of his friend Bryce, or, through the kindness of one of the Infirmary staff, a free theatre or concert ticket would come his way; and once, in the summer vacation, he had spent an exceptional week at the seaside house of his biology professor. Certainly he had made the most of his opportunities, not only by the profusion of his gratitude when anything was done for him but by a particular earnestness of manner, quite touching, that inspired confidence and affection. “So good of you to give me a leg-up, sir,” or, “Jolly decent of you, old chap.” With that modest, self-disparaging expression and those clear, frank eyes, who could help liking him? He was so absolutely sincere. The truth is that, when he was in the mood, he believed everything he said.