Friends and Lovers

  He saw her pass the small window, hurrying as if she were indeed late. But even now that last glimpse of her through the window, that colour of the sweater which she wore, reminded him again of her eyes. He looked sharply at George, but Fenton-Stevens was helping Mrs. McDonald to clear a chair of magazines, and Mrs. McDonald was saying that Miss Penny was always so thoughtful about bringing her something to read, which was a nice change from the knitting. It was clear from her matter-of-fact words, and George’s equally sensible reply, and Captain MacLean’s practical absorption in the excellent soda scones and fresh butter, that none of them realised they had just seen a miracle of a girl.

  David concentrated on the difficult problem of eating a newly baked oatcake. He was thankful that George had noticed so little, or else there would have been much leg-pulling for days—perhaps even weeks—about his sudden aberration. He could hear George saying to a group of Oxford friends, when the subject of women came up, “Remember David and his neat speeches on women being a snare and delusion? If they are pretty they have no heart, no brain. A pretty girl doesn’t need them: she doesn’t need anything except her face value, which she has calculated to the last shilling. Well, don’t listen to him... You should have seen him, holding on to her hand, no doubt supporting himself, for he would have fallen flat on his back if he had let go.” At least, David now reflected, he had been spared that.

  “You are very quiet, David,” George remarked, with a slight touch of prodding. Sometimes David was really too difficult socially. He had entered this cottage with good enough grace, but here he was in one of those preoccupied moods of his.

  “I am wrestling with this,” David said, and indicated the mess of golden crumbs which covered his plate. “It looks as if I needed a spoon, doesn’t it?”

  That amused his hostess; and her brother remarked, as he tactfully demonstrated how to spread butter on oatcake by putting the cake on the flat tablecloth rather than on the curved surface of the plate, that Mr. Bosworth was a great one for the joking. David saw a gleam in George’s eye, and knew that if any reminiscences about this visit were to be created in Oxford—for George rather fancied himself as a storyteller— then MacLean’s summing up would be the chief reason for mirth. George would develop a masterly rendering of the Highlander’s pronunciation of the initial consonant. “He’s a crate one for the choking,” George would say at the right moment after David had produced an attempt at wit. But that was the kind of leg-pulling that David could take.

  So now David smiled round the table as he thanked MacLean for the excellent advice, and began to talk about the mantelpiece, crammed with some particularly hideous presents from Shanghai and Singapore which the late Captain McDonald had brought home from his voyages.

  * * *

  “It is rather pleasant, I must say,” George began, and then thought better of saying it. They were walking up the winding road which would take them to Dr. MacIntyre’s house.

  “What is?”

  “To see the island from the inside, as it were. I’ve visited this place each summer, but I’ve always left MacLean at the jetty and then strolled inland. But this is the first time I’ve got to know any of them. They are very polite, but very remote to strangers.”

  “Foreigners, you mean.”

  George looked as if he did not like to accept that idea. After all, he was English, and these islands were part of the British Isles. And he had been coming to this part of Scotland each summer for six years now. “Well,” he said, “they accepted us all right today.”

  “Because we had the right password, I suppose.”

  “Dr. MacIntyre’s name?”

  “I’m afraid so. Quite a blow to admit it wasn’t for our sweet and charming smiles, isn’t it? But cheer up, George: the right password is the key to any fortress. Here it is quite simply a matter of friendship. It wouldn’t have mattered to Mrs. McDonald who we were, or what we did or thought: we came as friends of Dr. MacIntyre’s, and that was good enough for her.”

  “I must tell that to Mother,” George said. “She is completely baffled by these Highlanders, you know. When we first came here she tried visiting the cottages in the village at Loch Innish, taking the people some fruit from our garden and that sort of thing. But some weeks later they returned the visit, bringing home-made scones and heather honey. It set Mother back for weeks.”

  David let out a roar of laughter, and George joined in eventually. He had the uncomfortable feeling that David was laughing at quite a different side of the story.

  “You do throw yourself into things, old boy, don’t you?” George remarked, when David had recovered. “No half-measures for you in anything, it seems.” Then, thinking of his mother, with a hint of guilt for having laughed too, he said, “Might be rather nice to bring Mother and Eleanor over here some day. It would be definitely a new experience for them.”

  David said quickly, “Good God, not that.” And then more slowly, tactfully, “They will be much too busy, anyway.”

  “Yes. One always is busier than one imagines,” George paused. With a sudden flash of sensitivity he said, “Women are such damned snobs, come to think of it. They just couldn’t have tea in a kitchen without feeling all the time that it was the kitchen. Now men, for instance, enjoy a pleasant hour anywhere, and they don’t care where it is as long as it is pleasant.”

  David nodded. He was thinking again of the girl he had met in Mrs. McDonald’s kitchen. Her voice had no Highland intonation. Was she a summer visitor, and where was she staying, anyway? He halted suddenly, and looked back at the village. What an idiotic way to behave, he told himself angrily, and turned quickly to walk on with George.

  They said good-day to two children, an old man, and a young boy. But of the girl with the blue eyes and the dark auburn hair there was no sign.

  2

  DR. MACINTYRE AS LORD CHESTERFIELD

  Silence fell on the pleasant room. Dr. MacIntyre, sitting in his favourite armchair by the side of the large brick fireplace, wondered just how long they had been talking. The conversation had been interesting enough: it was always a delight to hear the news from Oxford, or to catch an echo of his own experiences when he had been an undergraduate, or to watch a young man’s ideas and enthusiasms suddenly reveal themselves in spite of pretended diffidence. For it was the fashion among young men these days to be diffident. But every now and again their natural exuberance would break down the pretence. And a damned good thing, too, Dr. MacIntyre reflected.

  David suddenly thought of looking at his watch. He rose quickly to his feet. “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said. “I’ve taken up far too much of your time. I had no idea...”

  “Then we both enjoyed the afternoon,” Dr. MacIntyre said tactfully. He rose too, and knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fireplace. He was a tall man, and he still carried himself erectly, but he had become thinner since he had ordered his tweed suit, for it hung loosely on him. His age, in spite of his white hair, was only noticeable in his deliberate movements. His blue eyes were unfaded, and there was youth in them: they were interested and amused. The flesh on his face was firm over the strong bones, and there was a fresh, healthy colour in his cheeks. He had surprised David when they had first met: he gave the impression of vigour and of enjoyment, as if his life had been completely successful and surprisingly entertaining.

  David hesitated, looking round the room, knowing that he really must take his leave and yet regretting to go. It was a room to work and talk and think in, a large room that was friendly and comfortable. Bookcases, tightly filled with books—and not all scholarly books either. A piano and a heavily filled music-rack. A wireless-set beside the fireplace. A gramophone and a good variety of records. At the west window there was a large desk. At the east window, looking over the Sound towards the mainland, there was a low table with a game of chess in progress and two comfortable armchairs. David’s eyes travelled back to the desk, with its busy disorder of work interrupted.

  He said, “I’m
afraid I have been rather a nuisance.”

  “Not a bit of it, not a bit of it,” Dr. MacIntyre said. He was satisfied with his pipe-tapping. He straightened his back, and then stood for a moment looking at a photograph on the mantelpiece. He seemed lost in thought, and David felt he was being politely dismissed. This was the way in which Chaundler, in Oxford, gave him warning. I’ve stayed too long, and I’ve talked too much—God, much too much—David thought miserably, and all the pleasure in the visit vanished as he realised how bored Dr. MacIntyre must have been.

  But Dr. MacIntyre, taking a keen look at the embarrassment on the young man’s face, said, “If you wait until I find my tobacco I’ll take a turn with you in the garden. I have some surprising hollyhocks.” He noted the relief on David’s face. Young men did not change very much, after all, in spite of fashions in behaviour... No doubt Bosworth had come here out of a sense of duty, not really expecting to enjoy himself. And now, because he has enjoyed the visit, he is having an attack of guilt in case he has bored me, Dr. MacIntyre thought. “I believe he likes me,” Dr. MacIntyre said to himself, and then shook his head over his own vanity. “Now where did I put that tobacco-tin?” he asked.

  David was looking at the three healthy children in the silver-framed photograph which, along with a faded picture of a very pretty woman in Edwardian dress, held the position of honour on the mantelpiece.

  “That was my wife,” Dr. MacIntyre remarked quietly. “And these are my grandchildren,” he added, straightening the silver frame to let the three young faces smile directly into the room.

  “Charming,” David said politely, but he was much more interested in the photograph of Mrs. MacIntyre. She reminded him strangely of someone.

  “Brats,” Dr. MacIntyre said, not without affection. “Thank Heaven it was decent weather today, or we shouldn’t have been given a moment’s peace. Chopsticks on the piano, cuttings from magazines scattered everywhere, portraits of me being made... I can’t even fall asleep in my own armchair in case I am drawn with my mouth open. Ah! Here it is!” He retrieved the tobacco-tin from the side of the chess-table. He filled his pipe thoughtfully, looked down at the chessmen on the board. “I’ll have to watch out, or I’ll be running into difficulties. The schoolmaster plays a canny game. Of course, I can always blame my mistakes on the view.” As he lit his pipe he raised his eyes and looked out over the Sound and its shining waters.

  David came over to join him. The two men stood in silence for a few moments.

  “I envy you living here,” David said suddenly, and was surprised to hear his own words.

  “You are seeing it at its best today, I might warn you,” Dr. MacIntyre said deprecatingly, but he was pleased all the same. And now, he thought, Bosworth will say it must be quite awesome in the winter months. His visitors always did. But David’s next remark made him turn to look at the young man with surprise.

  “Beautiful, but cruel,” David was saying. “So much land, so few people, so little for even those people to live on. And why? Fenton-Stevens says it was always wild land, only good for grouse and deer. True, you can’t do much with mountains except admire them or climb them. But where there are mountains there must be valleys. And where there are valleys there could be good roads and small towns and light industries. When we motored from Glasgow to Loch Innish we passed enough torrents and waterfalls to give electric power to the whole of Scotland. Then why aren’t there electric railways opening up the whole place? They’d bring more than they would take away: they don’t have to make a place ugly. I’m thinking of Switzerland, you see.” He stopped abruptly, aware that he was perhaps suggesting something that Dr. MacIntyre would deplore. Many people, even Scotsmen, would be annoyed by such an idea.

  Dr. MacIntyre was watching him with interested eyes. He said nothing, as if he were waiting for David to go on. And David realised that Dr. MacIntyre’s surprise was not caused by any new ideas that had been presented to him, but by the fact that David—an Englishman—had actually thought of them.

  But David didn’t speak. He was telling himself gloomily that whatever he could say about the Highlands—their neglect for almost two hundred years, the fact that as far as they were concerned the Industrial Revolution or the prosperity of the nineteenth century might never have existed in the British Isles, the lack of any large-scale plan with real determination behind it—well, Dr. MacIntyre had already thought of all these things. Anything David said might only look as if he were trying to show off in front of Dr. MacIntyre. Perhaps he had been enjoying that moment too much, when he felt he had captured Dr. MacIntyre’s attention. Yet it was more than that. He glanced sharply at Dr. MacIntyre to see if there was any trace of amusement in his eyes.

  “Of course,” David said, “I should admit that I never even thought about all this until I came to visit this part of the world.”

  Dr. MacIntyre looked at David thoughtfully. Visitors usually accepted what they saw and asked no questions. Either they praised the scenery and the beauties of the simple life—and then after three or four weeks they went home to modern conveniences—or they remarked how isolated and desolate it all was, how very primitive, and never stopped to wonder why. I have a weakness, Dr. MacIntyre thought, for young people who ask an intelligent why.

  He laid his hand on David’s shoulder and said, “I have something here that might interest you.” He led him to a bookcase, with more photographs and snapshots placed on its top. He chose one and handed it to David. It was a group of young men in the dress of forty years ago.

  “Do you know anyone there?” he asked. “I’ll give you a clue. It was taken in our last year at Balliol.”

  David recognised MacIntyre’s direct eye, strong nose, and determined jaw line. But Walter Chaundler was not so easy to find. David’s unsuccessful attempts amused Dr. MacIntyre.

  “There he is!” He pointed to the most elegant young blade of them all. “Of course, the photograph hasn’t lasted very well.” He examined its yellow, faded surface. “We all look as if we were giving imitations of William Tell’s son mixed with Oscar Wilde.”

  “And a touch of George Washington after he cut down the cherry-tree,” David suggested.

  “After he confessed,” Dr. MacIntyre emended. They both looked at the photograph and laughed in agreement. “It is a nice old horror,” MacIntyre said affectionately, as he replaced it carefully in its exact place on the bookcase. David was thinking of Walter Chaundler. He was remembering the quiet, thin face, imperceptible in a crowd, vague even to the pupils he tutored. David glanced towards the photograph again, and felt a sense of depression. On the surface Chaundler’s was the more successful life compared to that of the man who had suddenly retired to the simplicity of this island. On the surface... but the photograph pointed him out quite clearly as the less successful man. Perhaps not in his career; but somehow, some way, in himself.

  David said slowly, “Strange how one changes.”

  MacIntyre seemed to read his thoughts. “If I were a young man again there is one bit of advice I would like to get.” He paused then and smiled. “Now that’s an old man talking, if ever I heard one.”

  “What would that be, sir?” David asked.

  “Well,” Dr. MacIntyre said, “a man’s life is divided into two parts: there is his work and there is his own private life. Two small worlds which he has to make for himself. And it is only when he is old, and the time for decision is over, that he may realise he did not need to neglect one for the other. For if he concentrated too much on one of them, then he really confused their purpose. He had thought that either a successful career was life, or life itself was a career. He hadn’t realised that his work and his own private life should be given the same amount of thought, and they should grow along with each other, each influencing the other, each developing the other. Without that balance he will find himself an incomplete man. That’s the tragic thing about age: to realise you have somehow never seen what is happiness until it was too late to start building it up. Fo
r it has to be built. Pleasure is a simple thing: you can choose it, buy it, even have it as a gift. It only depends on your taste. But happiness is much more complicated: you have got to build it yourself.”

  “But what about the uneven start in life?” David asked. “Oh, I know that even those who get that head start have to work pretty hard if they want to achieve anything for themselves. But—”

  He paused. That was cold consolation. You might have contempt for those who depended on their father’s name or their grandfather’s money—the “borrowers” you could call them—but they still had an easier time of it, even in the smallest things. They could go to a concert, buy a ticket for a theatre or a copy of a book they wanted, without having to miss lunch for the next three days to pay for each of these pleasures. Yet even the man who could make the choice of feeding his mind and starving his body was lucky in his way: he had his head start too over those who had to starve both mind and body. There were plenty of them. Too many... David stared angrily out at the blue sea with its rim of clear bright green.

  “But it is the small worries that all link up to form a chain round your ankles. It isn’t easy that way. And if a man manages it in spite of all the handicaps, he gets more sneers than praise. We all make jokes about the self-made man; you’d think in Britain that the wealthy families had never been nouveaux riches at one time too. If snobbery is as important as we assume it is, then we should be quite thorough about it. If it is age and custom that count, then the descendant of the Saxon manor house, who is called plain ‘Mr’, is certainly more noble than any of the family of a fifteenth-century earl. Our mental habits are ludicrous. And damned unfair. Sorry, sir. But that is how it looks to me.”