The Judas Tree Read online

  But entertainments are never a conspicuous feature of Scottish universities and in recent months they had been few. For this reason alone his encounter with the Douglas family held the attraction of the unusual. During the week, while he attended the Infirmary by day and studied late at night, it remained agreeably at the back of his mind. He found himself looking forward to his visit on the following Saturday.

  The morning came grey but fine. After attending out-patients in the forenoon, he took the one o’clock “workman’s special” from Winton Central. This was a low-fare train—the price of the ticket, unbelievably, was fourpence—which ran down the Clyde estuary, serving the shipyard workers en route. He had the new belt with him—Bryce, anticipating trouble, had actually bought it as a spare some weeks before, and had willingly turned it over to him in his easy-going style. At Levenford Junction he changed to the single line, and just after half-past two, as the sun was breaking through the clouds, drew into Craigdoran.

  The little white station with its flowering hawthorn and tangle of climbing honeysuckle now wore a familiar aspect. The scent of the honeysuckle filled the air and he heard the hum of an early bee. Two youths, dressed for climbing, with packs on their backs, got out of the train before him. They went into the refreshment room where, peering through the ground-glass window, he saw Mary wrap in waxed paper the sandwiches they bought. Then the youths came out and Mary, following them to the door, looked searchingly along the platform.

  “It’s you.” She smiled. “I was beginning to be afraid you’d not come. Is your knee better?”

  She beckoned him in, made him sit down. The cat approached and rubbed against his leg.

  “I’m sure you’ve not had your lunch. I’ll fetch you some sandwiches and a glass of milk.”

  “Please don’t,” he said. “I’ve had a snack . . . in the . . . the buffet at Levenford Junction.”

  “Dear me,” she said quizzically, rather like her father, raising her brows. “That’s extraordinar’ peculiar. There never has been a buffet at the Junction.” From the glass bell on the counter she took a plate of sandwiches, then poured a frothing glass of milk. “There’ll be scarcely another soul in here over the weekend and I can’t see good food go to waste. You’ll just have to oblige me, this once.”

  A moment later she seated herself opposite him, struggling, it seemed, against some inner effervescence which grew suddenly beyond control.

  “I have news for you,” she exclaimed. “You’ve made a most tremendous hit.”

  “What!” He drew back, misunderstanding her.

  “Walter,” her lips twitched, “has taken the greatest notion of you. Ever since you left he’s done nothing but sing your praises. You’re such a nice young fellow.” She fought down laughter. “He’s quite cut up at missing you tonight—he’s attending a meeting of the Municipal Officials’ Guild in Winton—and I’m to give you his best regrets.” She went on before he could speak. “He’s fixed up a rare jaunt for us tomorrow. We’re to sail round the Kyles of Bute, stop for lunch at Gairsay, then back home.”

  He stared at her with a blank frown.

  “But I can’t possibly come down again tomorrow.”

  “No need to,” she said calmly. “Father says you’re to stay over with us. You can sleep with our Willie.”

  Still he frowned at her; then, gradually, his brow cleared. Never had he met such simple, open-hearted people. He had no out-patients at the Infirmary tomorrow, and surely would not lose much by missing just one day’s work. Besides, Sunday in Winton was an unspeakable day which he had always loathed.

  “You’ll come?” she queried.

  “With pleasure. And now I must mend the bike.”

  “It’s in the left luggage. Dougal put it there out of the way.”

  For the next hour he worked, fitting the new belt, which had to be cut and riveted. She came in occasionally to watch, not saying anything, just watching companionably. When he had finished he wheeled out the machine and started it up.

  “How about a spin?”

  She looked at him doubtfully, a hand on her ear against the frantic blast of the exhaust.

  “It’s quite safe,” he reassured her. “You just sit on the carrier and hold tight.”

  “I can’t get away till the four-thirty comes in. But afterwards, maybe you could take me home. I could ring up Father from the booking office and spare him coming out.”

  “That’s settled then,” he said gaily.

  An unusual mood of lightheartedness took possession of him. Whether due to his escape from work, or the fresh green country-side, he felt lifted up, as though breathing a rarer, brighter air. Until she should be free, and to test the machine, he took a fast run over the hill to Tulliehewan. When he returned, she was all ready to leave. Since Darkie must stay behind she had set out a saucer of milk for his supper.

  “So this is where I get on,” she said, perching side-saddle on the carrier.

  “You can’t sit like that. You’ll fall off. You must sit astride.”

  She hesitated, then swung one leg across, modestly, yet so inexpertly that before he averted his eyes a sweet prospect was momentarily revealed to him. Blushing, she said:

  “I’m not quite up to it yet.”

  “You’re doing famously.”

  Quickly he got into the saddle and set off. At first he went slowly, carefully avoiding the bumps, then, as he felt her gain confidence, he opened the throttle. They tore along, over the moors, the wind whistling past their ears. Her arms were clasped round his waist, her head, turned sideways, was pressed against his, shoulder.

  “Are you all right?” he shouted.

  “Fine,” she called back.

  “Enjoying it?”

  “It’s . . . it’s glorious. I’ve never gone so fast in all my life.”

  They were doing at least thirty miles an hour.

  When he pulled up at the shop in Ardfillan her cheeks were glowing, her hair blown and burnished by the breeze.

  “What a treat.” She laughed into his eyes, swaying a trifle unsteadily, still drunk with speed. “Come on up. I must run and tidy. I’m sure I’m a perfect sight.”

  His welcome by the baker was cordial, and by Willie even more enthusiastic than before. The aunt, however, seemed to accept him with fresh reservations, her eye speculative, at times tending coldly towards suspicion—though he softened her later by listening attentively to her symptoms and suggesting a cordial that might help her shortness of breath. The meal she set before them was macaroni cheese, a wholesome repast though lacking, inevitably, in those refinements that had been produced for Walter. Thereafter the evening passed quietly. Moray played draughts with the baker and was handsomely beaten three times in a row, while Mary, on a low stool by the fireside, worked on a piece of crochet which was clearly intended for her trousseau. Watching it develop, he could not help wondering if it was an edging for a nightdress—a warm, indulgent thought, not lewd. From time to time she would look at the clock and remark, with sedate concern, wholly unlike the girl full of humour and high spirits who had whirled gaily through space with him only an hour ago: “Walter will be at his meeting now.” And again: “Surely he’ll get a chance to give his speech. He wrote it all out so careful, and was so set on making it.” And finally: “He should be on his way to the train by this time. I hope he remembered his overshoes, he’s such a martyr to cold feet.”

  They all retired early. In Willie’s back room, which over-looked the yard, Moray had his first real talk with the boy, whose shyness had hitherto kept him silent. It appeared that as a school prize he had recently received an exciting book on David Livingstone, and soon they were in the wilds of Africa together, discovering Lake Nyanza, deploring the ravages of beri-beri and the tsetse fly. Moray had to answer a spate of eager questions, but at last he turned out the light and presently they were asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Next morning Walter arrived punctually at half-past nine, greeting Moray like
an old friend, full of his success on the previous evening. Although a number of ill-bred bounders had left the hall before the conclusion of his address, he had spoken extremely well, and for a good three-quarters of an hour. Having fully earned this day of relaxation he was in the mood to enjoy it. Nothing had pleased him more, he added, than to organise the expedition.

  This bumptious effusiveness puzzled Moray. Was there a streak of the woman in Walter or did he, as a man consistently rebuffed by his fellows, so lack male companionship that he fastened on to the first newcomer who came along? Perhaps the prestige of a future doctor attracted him, for he was patently a snob. Or it might be that through vanity he was simply bent on demonstrating his own importance to someone new to the town. With a shrug, Moray gave up.

  Mary and her brother had been ready for some time and now they set out, Walter leading the party along the Esplanade towards the pier, obviously determined to do things in style. At the steamer booking office he demanded first-class return tickets, adding casually:

  “Three and a half: the boy is under age.”

  The booking clerk turned a practised eye on Willie.

  “Four full fares,” he said.

  “I believe I asked for three and a half.”

  “Four,” said the clerk in a tired voice.

  An argument then ensued, brief yet fierce on Walter’s side, ending when Willie, interrogated by the clerk, truthfully gave his age, thus disqualifying himself from the reduced rate. Not a good start, thought Moray, ironically observing Walter slap down the extra coins with an injured air.

  The little red-funnelled paddle-boat came spanking down river and alongside the pier. She was the Lucy Ashton. Walter, somewhat recovered, explained to Moray that all the North British boats were named after characters in Scott’s novels, but he seemed disappointed that they were not to have the Queen Alexandra, the new two-funnelled Caledonian turbine; its absence seemed a slight impairment of his prestige.

  The gangway was skilfully run out, they went on board, and, looking around, he selected seats in the stern. Then the paddles churned and they were off, across the sparkling estuary and out towards the open firth.

  “Delightful, is it not?” Walter murmured, settling back. Things were going better now.

  But it was fresh upon the water and before long it became apparent that the situation he had chosen was exposed.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little breezy on this side, dear?” Mary ventured, after several minutes. Head inclined to the wind, she was holding on to her hat.

  “Not a bit of it,” Walter answered curtly. “I want to show Dr Moray all our local points of interest. This gives us an uninterrupted view.”

  The view—undoubtedly unimpaired, since most of the other passengers were in the lee of the cabin—was quite lovely, perhaps the most beautiful in all the Western Highlands. But Walter, though complacently owning its charm with all the proprietorship of a cicerone, was more concerned with the commercial import of the towns which fringed the shore.

  “That’s Scourie over there.” He pointed. “A thriving community. They put in a new gasholder last year. Twenty thousand cubic feet capacity. There’s progress for you. And they have a new sewage disposal project up before the town council. My father knows the Provost. And across on the other side is Port Doran. Can you make out the municipal buildings behind that steeple . . . ?”

  They were all steadily getting colder. Even Willie had turned blue, and had departed, muttering that he was going to look at the engines. But Walter went remorselessly on. What a goddam bore, thought Moray, with his legs stretched out and hands in his pockets. Scarcely listening now, he was watching Mary who, though very silent, occasionally put in a dutiful word of support. He saw that her entire nature changed in the presence of her fiancé. Her sparkle died, all the fun went out of her, she became reserved, sealed up, conscientiously obedient, like a good pupil in the presence of her teacher. She’ll have a hell of a life with that fellow when they’re married, he reflected absently—the wind and Walter’s monologue were making him drowsy.

  At last they threaded the Kyles, swung into Gairsay Bay, and manoeuvred to the pier. Willie, after a search, was retrieved from the warmth of the engine-room and they went ashore.

  “This is nice,” breathed Mary, with relief.

  The town, a popular resort, had an attractive and prosperous air: a circle of good shops on the front, the hotels mounting up on the wooded hill behind, moorland and mountain beyond. “And now for lunch,” Walter exclaimed, in the manner of one who has something up his sleeve.

  “Oh, yes,” Mary said cheerfully. “Let’s go to Lang’s. There it is, quite handy.” She indicated a modest but promising-looking restaurant across the road.

  “My dear,” Walter said, “I wouldn’t dream of taking Dr Moray to Lang’s. Or you either, for that matter.”

  “We always go there when we come with Father,” Willie remarked dourly. “They have rare hot mutton pies. And Comrie’s lemonade.”

  “Yes, let’s, Walter dear.”

  He stilled her with a raised, gloved hand and calmly produced his pièce de résistance of the day.

  “We are going to lunch at the Grand.”

  “Oh, no, Walter. Not the Grand. It’s so . . . so snobby . . . and expens . . .”.

  Walter threw an intimate, confidential smile at Moray, as though to say, These women!

  “It’s the best,” he murmured. “I have reserved a table in advance from my father’s office.”

  They began to climb the hill towards the Grand, which towered majestically, high above them. The footpath was long, through woods carpeted with bluebells, and steep, in parts excessively so. Occasionally between the trees they caught sight of expensive cars flashing upwards on the main driveway. Moray perceived that the ascent, which Stoddart led like a deerstalker, was tiring Mary. To allow her to rest he stopped and picked a little bunch of bluebells which he tied with a twist of dried grass, and handed to her.

  “Exactly the colour of your dress.” He smiled.

  At last they reached the summit and Walter, sweating, breathing heavily, brought them on to the broad terrace of the hotel where a number of guests were seated in the sunshine. An immediate silence fell as the little party appeared, some curious stares were turned towards it, and someone laughed. The main entrance was on the opposite side of the hotel and Walter had some difficulty in finding the terrace door. But finally, after some wandering, they were in the rich, marble-pillared foyer and Stoddart, having asked directions from an imposing figure in a gold-braided uniform, led the way to the restaurant, a huge, overpowering affair done in white and gold with enormous crystal chandeliers and a rich red pile carpet.

  It was absurdly early, only just gone twelve o’clock, and although the waiters were on duty, gathered in a group round the head waiter’s desk talking amongst themselves, no one else was in the room.

  “Yes, sir?”

  The head waiter, a stout, red-faced man in striped trousers, white waistcoat and cutaway, detached himself and came dubiously forward.

  “Lunch for three, and a boy,” Stoddart said.

  “This way, please.”

  His hooded eye had taken them in at a glance: he appeared to lead them off to a distant alcove in the rear, when Walter said pompously:

  “I want a table by the window. I have a reservation in the name of the town clerk of Ardfillan.”

  The major domo hesitated: he smells a tip, thought Moray satirically, and how wrong he is!

  “By the window did you say, sir?”

  “That table over there.”

  “Sorry, sir. That table is specially reserved for Major Lindsay of Lochshiel and his party of young English gentlemen.”

  “The one next to it then.”

  “That is Mr Menzies’ table, sir. A resident. Still, as he rarely comes in before one fifteen, and you’ll doubtless have finished by then. . . . If you care to have it . . . ?”

&n
bsp; They were seated at Mr Menzies’ table. The menu was handed to Walter. It was in Anglicised French.

  “Potage à la Reine Alexandra,” he began, reading it through to them, slowly, remarking complacently, in conclusion:

  “Nothing like French cooking. And five courses too.”

  While they sat in solitary state the meal was served, rapidly, and with veiled insolence. It was atrocious, a typical Grand Hotel luncheon, but below the usual standard. First came a thick yellowish soup composed apparently of flour and tepid water; next, a bony fragment of fish which had probably travelled from Aberdeen to Gairsay by the long way through Billingsgate, a fact only partially concealed by a coating of glutinous pink sauce.

  “It’s not fresh, Mary,” Willie whispered, leaning towards her.

  “Hush, dear,” she murmured, struggling with the bones, sitting very straight, her eyes on her plate. Moray saw that under her apparent calm she was suffering acutely. For himself, he did not, in his own phrase, care a tinker’s curse—he was not personally involved—but strangely it worried him to see her hurt. He tried to think of something light and gay that would cheer her but it would not come to him. Across the table Walter was now chewing his way through the next course, a slab of stringy mutton served with tinned peas and potatoes which cut and tasted like soap.

  The sweet was a chalky blancmange accompanied by tough prunes. The savoury, which followed swiftly, for now they were really being rushed, took the shape of a stiff, spectral sardine, emitting a kind of bluish radiance, and impaled on a strip of desiccated toast. Then, though it was not yet one o’clock and no other guests had as yet appeared, the bill was brought.

  If Stoddart had paid this immediately and they had departed forthwith all would have been well. But by this time Walter, through his unfeeling hide, had become conscious of a sense of slight, scarcely to be tolerated by the son of the Ardfillan town clerk. Besides, he had an actuarial mind. He withdrew one of the pencils with which his waistcoat was invariably armed, and began to make calculations on the bill. As he did so a tall, rakish-looking, weatherbeaten man, grey-haired, with a clipped moustache, wearing a faded Black Watch kilt, strolled in from the bar. He was followed by three young men in rough tweeds who had all, Moray immediately perceived, had more than a few drinks. As they took possession of the adjoining table they were noisily discussing how they had fished a beat on the River Gair—apparently the property of the man in the kilt. One of the three, a flashy-looking article, with blond hair and a slack mouth, was rather less than sober, and as he sat down his eye fell on Mary. Turning, he lolled over the back of his chair, began ogling her while the waiter served their first course, then, with a nudge and a wink, diverted the attention of his companions.