Poverty Castle (3 page)

They knew that Papa attracted accidents the way he did clegs. It wasn't just that he was often befuddled with wine, it was also that he had too much faith in the appearance of things.

‘If we do not venture what do we ever achieve?' he cried.

His daughters always felt most protective and loving when he was in this rash and defiant mood.

‘I'll go first,' said Effie. ‘I'm lighter.'

They all cricked their necks gazing up the stairwell. They hadn't realised the house was so high: three storeys, plus attics. If the roof or one of the upper floors collapsed they could all be killed.

Papa tweaked his moustache, first the right side and then the left: it was his way of crossing himself. Then he ascended the stairs, very cautiously. Diana came close behind, ready to yell a warning or grab him. The twins followed her. Rowena and Rebecca stayed behind with Mama. Rowena, who hated unnecessary exertion, pretended to be aggrieved and tried on various expressions to indicate it.

Sheep had not managed up into the rooms on the first floor, but birds had, and children: there were feathers and sweetie papers among the sand blown in from the beach. Cobwebs were everywhere. There were remnants of wallpaper. People had lived here once. They could live here again.

‘Look at those skirting boards and cornices,' cried Papa. ‘The best materials were used in the building of this house. Nothing shoddy or skimpy. I wonder why it was allowed to go derelict.'

‘Perhaps there was a murder,' said Effie, ‘and now there's a ghost.'

‘It's too bright and sunny for ghosts,' said Diana.

‘What about at night, when the wind's howling?'

Jeanie shouted down. ‘It's all right, Mama. It's quite safe if you want to come up.'

Intrepidly Papa led the way up to the second floor.

‘This is the style in which many old Scottish castles were built,' he said, ‘very high and narrow, with thick walls and small windows.'

‘But this isn't a castle,' said Effie. ‘It's got no turrets.'

‘With all these stairs and all these rooms we'd need a servant,' said Diana.

‘Well, we could afford a servant,' said Jeanie. ‘Couldn't we, Papa?'

But Papa, on his knees almost, was peering out of a window, ecstatic about the view.

Jura's great lumps of stone shone in the blue sky.

‘You can almost see the deer,' said Jeanie.

In the distance, southward, across the river, was the little harbour with boats in it; and on a hill above it people played on the nine-hole golf course. Walking over it that morning Papa had picked what he claimed to be mushrooms. To prove it he had eaten half of one while the girls shrieked in alarm and waited for him to turn black and die.

‘What's that over there?' asked Effie, pointing.

Northward, beyond the wide machair, was a dense wood out of the heart of which rose chimneys and parts of a roof.

‘That'll be the big house where the laird lives,' said Papa.

‘Who's the laird?' asked Diana.

‘This is Campbell country so I suspect he'll be a member of that clan.'

‘Was it him put up those notices on the beach?' asked Effie.

They were to the effect that the beach was private and trespassing was forbidden. The Sempills had not been deterred.

‘Does he own the ruins of the old castle?' asked Jeanie. ‘That said private too.'

‘I expect his ancestors lived in it once, hundreds of years ago.'

‘Is this house on his land?' asked Diana. ‘It could well be.'

‘I think he's too greedy,' said Effie.

‘Who is, my dear?' panted Mama, arriving just then with Rowena and Rebecca.

‘The laird. He owns all the land.'

‘Look at that splendid rowan,' cried Papa.

They crowded round the window, looking.

‘Do you mean that tree with the white blossoms?' asked Effie.

‘That is not just a tree, my dear. That is a symbol.' He quoted:

‘Did Sir Walter Scott write that, Papa?' asked Jeanie.

The girls had all been called after Scott's heroines.

‘No, Jeanie, it was written by a lady called Caroline Oliphant or Lady Nairne. A very moving tune goes with it. Mama, please sing us a snatch.'

‘I'm still recovering my breath, darling.' But after a few more deep breaths she broke into song.

They loved listening to Mama singing. Sometimes she was out of tune or forgot the words but it never mattered.

‘I know that tune,' cried Effie. ‘Pipe bands play it.'

‘So they do,' said Papa. ‘It is one of the best known and best loved of Scottish songs. Some decry it as sentimental but in my opinion it expresses in a simple but moving way the sanctities of family life.'

They gazed again at the tree, more earnestly this time. It
was, they agreed, like a gigantic white rosebud and had more than its share of magic that all growing things had, including toadstools.

‘What are sanctities, Papa?' asked Effie.

Mama rescued her agnostic husband, not for the first time.

‘Papa will explain later. In the meantime I think we should go down. We are tempting providence by remaining here.'

‘Have no fear, my love,' said Papa. ‘The rowan will protect us.'

‘How will it do that?' asked Effie.

‘In the old days people planted a rowan near their home, to keep evil spirits away.'

‘That's superstition,' said Diana.

‘It didn't stop the house from becoming a ruin,' said Jeanie.

‘It is not yet a ruin. Restoring it would be costly but quite practicable. Perhaps we were sent here for that purpose.'

‘Are you going to buy it, Papa?' asked Diana.

‘It may not be for sale.'

‘Aren't we going to live in Spain?' asked Rowena.

A friend of Papa's had offered to sell him a villa in the province of Alicante, beside the sea. Papa had pointed out the advantages: sunshine all the year round, which would help Mama's arthritic little finger; cheap wine and fruit; miles of sand and a warm sea; orange and almond groves; a swimming pool in the garden.

The girls had been learning Spanish.

‘Que hora est?' asked Jeanie.

‘Uno, dos, tres,' sang Effie.

‘Olé,' piped Rebecca.

Papa clapped his hands. ‘Muy bien. It does seem a pity to throw away such accomplishments.'

Mama was not keen on their exiling themselves. ‘Do you really think, Edward, that this house could be restored?'

‘Indeed I do. It would be a challenge but it could be done.'

‘It would make a beautiful home. Don't you think so, girls?'

‘Too many stairs,' said Diana.

‘That doesn't matter,' cried Effie. ‘None of us is fat or stiff or old.'

‘Granny Ruthven's old,' said Rowena.

Mama's mother was nearly eighty.

‘She could climb a mountain if she wanted to,' said Effie. ‘Couldn't she, Mama?'

‘Indeed she could.'

‘Carrying her handbag,' said Papa.

They all loved him for saying it. It showed how kind and forgiving he was. Granny Ruthven often made fun of him, rather cruelly. She called him fushionless. Her handbag was a family joke. It weighed a ton, they said.

‘Why don't we go and make enquiries?' cried Mama.

‘Ask the laird, do you mean, Mama?' asked Diana.

Mama laughed. ‘I was thinking of asking the village shopkeeper, who is usually a source of information.'

‘Good idea,' said Papa. ‘We could have tea among the apple trees.'

Suddenly Rebecca burst into tears. ‘I can't go,' she wailed.

They comforted her. ‘Of course you can, darling.'

‘I've got no knickers on.'

They took care not to laugh. ‘That doesn't matter.'

‘Yes, it does. Look.' She showed how immodestly short her light summer dress was.

‘You can have mine,' said Effie, about to take hers off.

‘They're too big and you need them yourself.'

‘So you do, my dear,' said Mama.

Papa and Diana saved the situation between them. He produced a white silk cravat and she two tiny safety pins.

Mama's eager hands quickly fashioned panties that Rebecca, to their relief, after much twisting and turning, accepted as satisfactory.

It was the kind of little incident that happened often and brought them all close in loving dependence.

Going down the stairs their feet were cautious but their minds soared.

‘If we bought it we should call it Eagle's Nest,' cried Effie.

‘Eagle's Eyrie, you mean,' said Jeanie. ‘We could keep dogs and hens and rabbits and goats.'

‘And pussy-cats,' said Rebecca.

‘I would like a white peacock,' said Rowena. She imagined herself leading it about with a silken cord.

On their way back to the beach, where their things had to be gathered and carried a quarter of a mile over fences and through fields to the Daimler, Diana took it upon herself to warn the twins to hold their tongues while Papa was talking to the shopkeeper about the house. Blurters-out of truth, in accordance indeed with Papa's precept, they sometimes gave away family secrets. Diana was old enough to know that if you were thinking of buying a house you shouldn't appear too eager, otherwise the price might be increased. She agreed with Mr Chambers, the Edinburgh lawyer, that Papa's money ought not to be wastefully spent. She and Mr Chambers had once exchanged winks to that effect, his amused but hers most serious.

A
NOTHER OF
Papa's precepts was to be valiant in naming one's rights but not aggressive in seeking them: better to yield a little than cause strife. Like the nations of the earth Effie and Jeanie were not persuaded. On arrival at the village store, when they saw that only one table was vacant in the apple orchard where tea was served, and another family was making for it, they dashed from the car to occupy it, and then, while Jeanie planted the flag, Effie went about hunting for empty chairs. Thanks to their efforts their family was soon accommodated.

Diana noticed, anxiously, how people at other tables were amused by her sisters and impressed by the whole Sempill family. It would have been difficult for her to explain why she was anxious, for nothing threatened her family then and nothing she could foresee threatened them in the future, except possibly Papa's fondness for wine, and she felt confident that she and Mama together could keep this under control. Perhaps it was because they were so fortunate, being healthy, happy, clever, handsome and now rich. She did not know yet whether she believed in God. Papa said that they all had to make up their own minds. She sometimes thought that if she was God and had made a family as lucky as the Sempills she would expect them in return to be humble, generous, and grateful; otherwise she might have to teach them a lesson. Often she lay in bed dreading that one of them would die. They were all generous, Papa so much so that he had to be restrained. Perhaps they were not as humble as they should be, especially Effie, but they weren't conceited either. Her sisters were too young to know about being grateful, but she knew and tried hard to make up for them.

She seemed to be the only one with these worries and doubts. For instance, at that moment a wasp was buzzing about their heads. She thought they had a right to kill it before it stung one of them, but the others, especially Jeanie, were making excuses for it and crying that it would go away if they didn't frighten it. Often she wondered why she was so different from her sisters, in appearance as well as nature. Once, when she was seven and Rebecca had just been born, fair-haired like all the rest except her, she had asked her mother if she had been adopted. She had been lovingly assured that she had not, and had been shown a photograph of Granny Ruthven, at the age of eleven. But for the old-fashioned dress she could have been taken for Diana. She had the same dark hair and the same responsible frown, as if everything depended on her.

At last the wasp gave up and went off to bother people at an adjacent table. Almost immediately it was replaced by more welcome intruders. Two robins darted out of an apple tree on to the table where they helped themselves to crumbs. No one spoke or even breathed: such charming marauders must not be scared away. Jeanie held out her hand, palm uppermost. One of the birds hopped on to it, while the other perched on Rebecca's shoulder. Both bowed, as if acknowledging applause, like comics on a stage.

A big rosy-cheeked girl came up to wipe the table and take their order. She wore a tartan overall.

‘Cheeky wee things,' she said, with a Highland lilt. ‘They think they own the place.'

‘They're delightful,' said Mama. ‘Are all the inhabitants of Kilcalmonell so friendly?'

‘I don't know about that. They're wee bullies actually. They chase away finches and sparrows. What would you like then?'

As if huffed by her criticism the robins flew off to another table.

‘Tea for two, please,' said Papa, ‘five lemonades, and lots of buttered scones.'

‘Is that your car?' she asked, staring at the Daimler.

Diana had noticed before how possession of the big blue rich-looking car had gained them respect they hadn't really earned.

‘Yes, it's ours,' said Effie, by no means humbly. ‘It's got real leather seats.'

‘I expect you know the village well,' said Papa to the waitress.

‘I should do. I've lived here all my life. In October I'm going to University, thank goodness.'

‘Congratulations, which University?'

‘Glasgow.'

‘We're from Edinburgh ourselves.'

‘I thought that, you talk like Edinburgh folk.'

They weren't sure whether that was a compliment or not.

‘When we were on the beach,' said Papa, ‘we saw a very big derelict house.'