Poverty Castle (19 page)

‘Before you start work, perhaps?'

‘Sure. Thanks. I'd like very much to meet your family. I feel I already know them.'

She had looked at their photograph often enough and had imagined herself as one of them. Was that her, to the right of the peacock?

A
SEAGULL
was standing on top of Highland Mary's head, but it wasn't this that was causing the crick in her neck. She was said to be gazing sideways across the firth towards Ayrshire, home of her lover Robert Burns. Behind her rose the grassy rock on which Dunoon Castle had stood centuries ago. Robert the Bruce had stayed there once, and Mary Queen of Scots. Now only a few stones were left. This sunny May evening a flag was flying: the blue and white St Andrew's Cross of Scotland. The twins would be pleased. Like Papa they were staunch nationalists, foolishly, in Diana's opinion. But what, she thought, as the car ferry
Juno
approached the pier, would it matter who governed Scotland, what would anything matter, if Mama died?

She was instantly cheered by the sight of her sisters among the people on the pier. As always they were attracting looks of admiration. As tall as Diana herself they were alert, healthy, full of vigour, and interested in everything. They had their hair arranged in ponytail fashion, tied with red ribbons. Their jeans were blue, their jackets red, and their sports shoes red and white. They were not only splendid, they were also very clever. In October Effie was to become a medical student at Edinburgh University and Jeanie in the same city was to attend the Veterinary College.

They greeted Diana with kisses and led her to the Daimler parked on the pier. It was ten years old but still opulent.

They could have come in the new white Escort but, said Jeanie, they had wanted to show off.

Effie was to drive as far as Lochgilphead and Jeanie the rest of the way to Kilcalmonell.

Diana sat in front.

They sped along the promenade towards the Holy Loch.

‘Any developments?' asked Diana.

Effie shook her head. ‘Mama's still in a state of rapture.'

‘Rapture's the word,' said Jeanie, from behind.

‘We've decided,' said Effie, ‘that it's going to turn out all right. Without bringing in God or anything like that, surely happiness like Mama's, because she's going to have a baby, deserves to be rewarded?'

‘What could be more deserving of good luck,' said Jeanie, ‘than a woman who's deliriously happy because she's going to have a baby?'

‘A baby boy, after five daughters,' said Effie.

‘Is she so sure then?' asked Diana.

‘Utterly.'

‘You're both speaking as if you think she's going to go through with it.'

‘Oh, she's going to go through with it,' said Effie.

‘But what about the specialist?'

‘If there were ten specialists telling her it would be fatal, never mind dangerous, she'd still go through with it. Wouldn't she, Jeanie?'

‘Yes, she would. We're hoping the specialist will be able to advise us how to take care of her, so that everything will be all right in the end.'

‘When would it be?'

‘October. We won't be at home then. It'll all be left to Rowena and Rebecca.'

‘And Papa.'

‘Yes, but we're afraid, Di, that if things went wrong poor Papa would go to pieces. He's going to hire a nurse of course.'

It so happened that they were then driving through the village of Sandbank. On their right, in the Holy Loch, was the American depot ship
Hunley
. Two nuclear submarines nestled close to it.

Here were monstrosities that could kill a million women
and their babies. Effie and Jeanie hated them and wanted to be rid of them, Diana hated them but thought that they prevented war. This evening they did not quarrel about it.

‘How's University?' asked Effie.

‘Busy. The exams are next week. How's school?'

‘The Drama Club's doing
Julius Caesar
. Jeanie and I are hoping to produce. Rowena's Portia, Brutus' wife. It isn't a big part as you know but she makes all the rest look amateurish. Everybody says so. She's astonishingly good.'

‘And so beautiful,' said Jeanie. ‘Everybody just gasps when she comes on to the stage.'

‘And Rebecca?'

The three of them smiled happily. Their youngest sister always had this effect on them, and on others too. Her sweetness of temper captivated everyone.

They were now driving by the side of dark deep Loch Eck.

‘She says she'd love a little baby brother,' said Effie.

‘She makes us feel ashamed,' said Jeanie. ‘We never thought about congratulating Mama till she did.'

‘To tell the truth, Di,' said Effie, ‘Jeanie and I like our family as it is. We don't want any changes. This baby, boy or girl, will change everything.'

‘Rebecca says it will bring us all closer together,' said Jeanie.

‘Anyway, it's marvellous to see Mama so happy again,' said Effie. ‘Even if she does say and do peculiar things. Like kissing the rowan tree.'

‘Like asking us to feel her tummy,' said Jeanie.

‘Like starting to knit bootees,' said Effie.

Mama was a notoriously bad knitter.

‘Like telling us the baby's not just hers or Papa's but all humanity's,' said Jeanie.

‘She's just the vessel through which he will come into the world,' said Effie.

‘Lots of things like that,' said Jeanie, fondly.

That ended the conversation about Mama in the meantime, though each of them kept thinking about her.

They passed the end of the road that led to the village of Cairndow on the shore of Loch Fyne. The poet John Keats had stayed at the inn there during a walking tour more than a hundred years ago. The Sempills had once made a detour to see ‘Keats' room'. Every time they came this way they quoted some of his poetry. They were young and he had died young.

Effie spoke the opening lines of
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
:

Jeanie finished the verse:

They fell silent then. They realised it was a picture of how the world would be if Mama died.

They crossed the bridge at the head of the loch and turned westwards towards Inverary.

‘I've invited Peggy Gilchrist for a weekend,' said Diana.

‘Peggy Gilchrist?' said Jeanie.

‘The girl I share a room with. I've mentioned her often. You've said you'd like to meet her.'

‘The labourer's daughter that studies history?' asked Effie.

‘Yes.'

‘Is she coming?' asked Jeanie.

‘I think so.'

‘When? I hope not soon. We've got this matter of Mama to settle first, haven't we? We don't want strangers about.'

‘Sometime next month I suggested, if she can get off work.'

‘What work?' asked Effie.

‘In a supermarket.'

Diana felt disappointed and annoyed too. The twins, especially Effie, called themselves radicals. They should have been enthusiastic about Peggy's visit.

Have we, she thought, become so selfish, so satisfied with ourselves, that we resent intruders, no matter who they are?

‘I would like her to meet Edwin,' she said.

‘That should be interesting,' said Jeanie.

‘If she meets Nigel that would be more interesting still,' said Effie.

‘I don't think it would be necessary for her to meet Nigel,' said Diana, rather peevishly.

‘I'm a bit surprised she's agreed to come,' said Effie. ‘I'd have thought, from what you've told us about her, that she'd have refused. Doesn't she regard us as the sort to be abolished come the revolution?'

‘If I was in her place I'd want to abolish people like us,' said Jeanie, ‘living on the fat of the land on unearned income.'

‘Peggy's not like that.'

‘Then she ought to be,' said Effie, ‘if she's as poor as you've said she is.'

‘If this is your attitude I had better cancel the invitation.'

‘Perhaps you should,' said Jeanie.

They were then passing Inverary Castle, built in the eighteenth century in the style of a French chateau. The original castle had been sacked by Montrose and his Irish caterans in 1644. The then Marquis, chieftain of the Campbells, had fled in a boat to Greenock, leaving his clansmen to be harried and slaughtered, and earning himself the name of coward.

T
HOUGH SHE
would marry and have children and live in a grander house Diana knew that she would never experience a greater joy than returning home to Poverty Castle, even after a short absence. No one was particularly demonstrative, not even the dogs or cats or peacock. They were all deeply and quietly glad to see her and she to see them. The twins rushed in, shouting that they were home and very hungry. Rowena came down the stairs, with one of the cats in her arms. Rebecca appeared wearing an apron, for she had been helping in the preparations for dinner. Papa in his shabby kilt made for the sherry bottle and glasses. Mama rushed in with floury hands, took her glass of sherry, kissed Diana, and asked how the journey had been. Diana herself, at the centre of all this affectionate attention, felt grateful and humble.

Later, alone in her room for a few minutes before dinner, she found herself in tears. It could hardly be because of anxiety about Mama, because Mama had seemed the most carefree of them all. Nor could it be because of Papa's melancholy eyes, which were familiar. It couldn't be either because the twins, whom she loved, disapproved of her marrying into a titled family. Had they not ‘forgiven' her for that? It must be the sadness at the heart of things, ‘lacrimae rerum', which made the poetry of Keats so moving, memorable and truthful.

There was a knock on the door. Quickly she wiped away the tears.

It was Rebecca. There was no one Diana would have been more pleased to see.

She had changed into a pretty pink dress. ‘Dinner will be
ready in five minutes,' she said. ‘I wanted to talk to you first. I thought you looked so worried.'

‘Did I? I thought I was hiding it. I am worried of course, about Mama. Though I must say it's a long time since I saw her look so well.'

‘She's often in pain.'

Diana was taken aback. ‘How do you know? Did she tell you?'

‘Yes, but she made me promise not to tell anyone. I haven't told Papa yet or the twins or Rowena. I had to tell you, Diana. I need your advice.'

‘Does the doctor know?'

‘He didn't, until I told him.'

‘Some doctor!'

‘Be fair, Diana. How was he to know? Mama keeps telling him she feels fine.'

‘Why doesn't she tell him about the pain?'

‘She's afraid she won't be allowed to have the baby. She agreed to let the specialist examine her as long as it was understood that he was going to advise how she could have the baby safely, and not that she should get rid of it. We've all had to agree with that, Diana. You'll have to agree to it too, so please don't try to make her change her mind.'

If none of them dared to say it Diana saw that she must. ‘But if the specialist says that it would be too dangerous for her to have the baby, are we to say nothing? Are we to let Mama die in front of our eyes?'

‘It's her decision, Diana. She's thought about it a long time. She's got a right to take the risk, if that's what she wants to do.'

Diana hardly recognised her sweet-natured thirteen-year-old sister in this resolute realist in the pink dress, who had made a heart-rending decision and was going to keep to it.

Something else had to be said. Diana kept bitterness out of her voice, though she felt some. ‘Is this baby more important than the rest of us?'

‘I knew you would say that, Diana. It's not fair and it doesn't help.'

‘I have to say what I think, Rebecca.'

‘As long as you don't say it to Mama.'

‘What if it isn't a boy? Would Mama think the risk worth taking if she thought it would be another girl?'

‘Yes, she would. If it's a girl she'll love it just as much.'

‘She'd be terribly disappointed.'

‘We would all be, wouldn't we, for her sake? But if we helped her she'd soon get over it. Do you know what I think, Diana? I think this baby, whether it's a boy or girl, will bring us together again.'

‘Aren't we together now?'

‘You know what I mean. We're not nearly as close to one another as we used to be.'

‘That's inevitable. We're all getting older.'

‘Well, I think this baby could bring us all close together again.'

Yes, if all goes well, thought Diana.

Rebecca changed the subject. ‘The twins said you've invited Peggy Gilchrist for a weekend.'

‘I've changed my mind.'

‘Why? We would all like to meet her.'

‘When I mentioned it to the twins they were far from enthusiastic.'

‘They're not very enthusiastic about anything just now. Because of Mama. Don't change your mind, Diana. Invite her. I mean, urge her to come. From what you've told us about her I think she could be good for us.'

‘In what way?'

‘Well, she's always been poor and we've always been well-off. It's not been our fault, it's just been our good luck, but maybe it's made us selfish in some way we can't see ourselves. She might help us to see it.'

They heard then the bell being rung for dinner. They wondered who could be ringing it so merrily.

‘It must be Mama,' said Rebecca.

When they went downstairs they found that it had been Mama.

Except when they had guests they ate in the big whitewashed kitchen. It made things easier for the cook, who was Mama, her assistant Rebecca, and the waitresses, who were in turn Effie, Jeanie, and Rowena. Papa was in charge of the wine. On most occasions it was only his own glass he kept refilling, not because he was too greedy to share but because Mama put a limit on what the girls were allowed to drink. This evening she did not. Four bottles were consumed, and everybody, including Mama herself, ended up tipsy. She kept saying that this over-indulgence on her part was unpardonable, however she was sure little Roderick would forgive her, since this was no ordinary dinner but a celebration: it was the first time the whole family, all eight of them, were together. She could feel Roderick stirring and growing inside her. She laughed at that and at many other things. It was, Diana thought, to defy the pain.