The Baker’s Daughter (12 page)

The air rifle that Sandy had acquired from the saddler was a great source of pleasure for him and his friends, and for the first few weeks Sandy saved up his pocket money and paid his shilling ungrudgingly. The rifle was worth every penny he had spent upon it; there was no doubt of that. After a bit, however, the novelty began to wear off and the drain upon his resources became a nuisance. The rifle cost a good deal more than a shilling a week—so Sandy found—for unless he bought ammunition it was useless. This meant that he could never spend money on anything else and must deny himself sweets and apples and a host of small luxuries to which he was accustomed.

Sandy was not used to self-denial, and gradually he began to fall behind with his payments. Mr. Hogg, who had been so pleasant and accommodating, became very unpleasant and grasping. Unfortunately for Sandy he was obliged to pass the saddler's shop daily on his way to school, and Mr. Hogg knew the hour of his passing and would lie in wait for him, and, pouncing out of his shop, he would seize Sandy by the arm and inquire grimly when Sandy proposed to pay up his arrears. It was all most unpleasant, and Sandy had come to hate the sight of the saddler's long, sallow face.

By the middle of February he owed Mr. Hogg five shillings—an immense sum—and could see no way of getting the money. He had tried to borrow money from everybody he could think of, but as this was by no means the first time he had found himself in financial straits, his friends and relations were aware that money lent to Sandy was money lost.

It was Saturday morning—a holiday, of course—and the day dawned clear and bright. Sandy had arranged to go up to the moors and shoot with David Brown. They had not been out together for some weeks, for the weather had been bad and Sandy had not been able to face Mr. Hogg to obtain the necessary ammunition for his rifle, but now the weather had cleared and the ammunition had been procured from the saddler by the simple means of bribing one of Will Pringle's message boys to fetch it—a means so simple indeed that Sandy was annoyed with himself for not thinking of it before. After a good deal of thought Sandy had decided to explain his difficulties to David and offer him a half share of the air rifle in return for the money that he needed to pay Mr. Hogg. David was never very flush, but he might be able to raise five shillings at a pinch—it was worth trying. The position was really desperate by this time, for Mr. Hogg had come to the end of his patience and had told Sandy that he would speak to his father unless the money was paid on Monday morning. The threat alarmed Sandy considerably, for he was aware that his father would be furious if he heard about his transactions, and, to make things worse, he had already involved himself with Will Pringle on the subject of the air rifle. Will had seen it in his room. “What's that, eh? Where did ye get that from, Sandy?” Will had inquired, and Sandy, taken aback at the sudden question, had replied, “It's David Brown's air rifle. I'm keeping it for him.”

“David Brown's, is it?” grumbled Will. “I thought Brown had more sense than to give the lad a thing like that. Ye needn't come asking
me
for money to buy one… See and not shoot yourself, nor any other body either.”

Sandy had quailed before the glowering look and had taken care to hide his treasure more carefully than before.

It was obvious to Sandy that he would get short shrift if his father discovered the truth, and he had lain awake for hours trying to find a way out of the mess. He was now eating his porridge, or rather he was toying with it distastefully, for his trouble loomed so large that it had taken away his appetite.
David must help me
, he thought.
It's the only possible way I'll have to explain—

“What's wrong with the porridge?” inquired Grace.

“What's wrong… Nothing,” replied Sandy, waking from his unpleasant dreams.

“Ye've been swishing it around yer plate for the last five minutes,” declared Grace indignantly. “Yer getting so nice over yer food, there's no pleasing ye.”

“I'm not hungry, that's all.”

Will, who had been glooming silently over his bacon and eggs, suddenly looked up and said, “Hurry up with yer breakfast for any sake. I'll be needing ye this morning.”

“You'll be needing me!” echoed Sandy in dismay.

“Aye, I'm shorthanded. Two of them are off with colds—flu, they call it—I'll flu them. Folks are soft as butter these days; they take to their beds every time they sneeze, damn them.”

“I was going off on my bike with David,” objected Sandy with a courage born of sheer desperation.

“Well, ye can't then. I've told ye I'm needing ye,” said Will.

Thus it was that Sandy's last hope disappeared, and he found himself doomed to spend his holiday serving out scones and cookies and crusty loaves of bread and counting out change to fat women with market baskets instead of pedaling off to the moors with David Brown. He was angry and rebellious—his holiday had been filched from him at the last minute without the slightest compunction. He was also very frightened, for unless he could pay up the arrears that he owed before Monday, Mr. Hogg was going to speak to his father. All this grumbled away at the back of Sandy's mind as he served his father's customers that fine Saturday morning.

At half past twelve the other assistants went home to lunch, and Sandy was left alone in the shop. The morning rush was over, and there were very few customers between the hours of half past twelve and two. Sandy opened the till to find change for a pound note for Mrs. Anderson, the butcher's wife, and when he tried to shut it, the drawer stuck. Mrs. Anderson left the shop and Sandy returned to the till. He jiggled the drawer this way and that, trying to make it work, but without success. There was a lot of money in the till, Sandy noticed—pounds and pounds—and he needed money so badly. That pound note of Mrs. Anderson's would pay off every penny that he owed and he would be perfectly clear to start afresh. Perfectly clear! No more worry, no more need to slink past Mr. Hogg's shop like a murderer, no more need to pinch and save, perfectly clear…

The temptation to take the money was sudden and absolutely irresistible. Sandy hesitated for a moment, glanced around to see if he was alone, and slipped the note into his pocket.

“So ye're a thief, Sandy!” exclaimed a voice from the back of the shop.

“Grace!” cried Sandy in dismay.

“Aye, it's me,” said Grace grimly. “Ye weren't expecting to see me, were ye? I was coming to call ye to yer dinner. I saw ye take the money. It's a fine thing to steal from yer own father—a fine thing! Wait till I tell him about it.
You'll
catch it, my lad!”

“I'll put it back,” Sandy cried.

“Aye, ye'll put it back and take it some other time,” declared Grace, her eyes blazing with anger. “I'm sick of yer soft ways, and that's the truth. It's a right good thrashing ye need, and ye'll get it too. I'm away this minute to tell yer father the whole thing…”

Sandy seized her arm. “Grace!” he cried. “Please, Grace… I'll promise—anything.”

“I know that fine,” she replied, throwing off his hand. “Ye'll promise anything, Sandy. Ye never spoke a truer word.” And so saying, she turned and vanished upstairs.

Sandy stood there for a moment, petrified with horror, and then he turned and fled from the shop.

His first idea had been to go to the Bullochs for protection, but when he reached the West Gate, he changed his mind, for what could he say to the Bullochs to explain his arrival? There was nothing he could say. He hesitated for a moment at their door and then sped on westward along the river path into the open country.

When he had left the town behind him, Sandy dropped into a walk and began to consider the situation in which he found himself. It was a ghastly situation. Nobody could save him from his father's wrath; nobody would want to save him, for they would all be against him, every one of them. They would not listen to him if he tried to explain how the thing had happened. Sandy looked back along the road he had traveled since that fateful day in November when Mr. Darnay had given him the five shillings, and he had decided to buy the air rifle. It had all started then—all the trouble. It wasn't his fault at all; it was just bad luck. One thing had led to another until there was absolutely no escape. He had been forced by circumstances to take the money, and if only Grace hadn't seen him it would have been all right. It was just like Grace to go snooping around where she wasn't wanted.

By this time, Sandy was very tired and exceedingly hungry. He thought longingly of the piles of scones and cookies in his father's shop and wished he had had the foresight to fill his pockets before leaving. He was not far from Tog's Mill now. If he called there, Sue would give him food, but she would want to know why he had come and what he was doing. People were all so inquisitive about one's affairs, and Sue was no exception; besides, if there was any search, or hue and cry, Tog's Mill would be one of the first places they would visit.

Sandy had just decided to give Tog's Mill a wide berth when he saw his sister coming toward him along the path. She was walking slowly and her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and Sandy had time to leap behind a convenient rock before she saw him. He was lucky in his choice of a hiding place, for there was a crevice in the rock, and in front of the crevice grew a small fir tree. He crept in and lay there waiting for Sue to pass.

She was so long in coming that Sandy began to think she must have turned back, and then he heard a stone rattle on the path and she came around the corner of the rock. He could see her quite clearly between the branches of the fir tree, and it seemed to him that she looked different. He had always seen her as a matter-of-fact sort of person, brisk and businesslike, but this Sue was sad and dreamy. She stood for a few moments looking at the river as it splashed by, her head bent in thought, and suddenly Sandy felt a rush of affection for her—she was the only person in the whole world who really cared for him.

He crawled out of his hole and stood up. “Sue,” he said.

She turned and looked at him in surprise. “What a fright you gave me!” she exclaimed.

“I didn't mean to speak to you,” Sandy told her, “but then I felt I couldn't go away without saying good-bye.”

“Go away?” she echoed in amazement.

“I'm going away. I can't stand it anymore—Grace and Father,” declared Sandy, and somehow or other it seemed to him that this was the truth. He saw himself as a patient and long-suffering individual who had borne injustice and persecution for months and had now come to the end of his tether. “It's dreadful,” he added. “You can't call your soul your own with Grace snooping around the house. It was bad enough when you were there—”

“Oh, Sandy!” she cried. “I thought you'd get on better without me.”

“I've nobody now,” he told her sadly. “Nobody to talk to. Everybody's against me. I'm on my way to Edinburgh to enlist in the army. It's the only thing for me to do.”

The idea had only just this moment occurred to him, but he spoke as if it had been in his mind for weeks, and indeed, no sooner had the words left his lips than it seemed to him that this was what he had always intended, for Sandy was such a master of deceit that he was able to deceive himself.

“Sandy!” cried Sue, aghast.

“It's the only thing,” he repeated. “It's the only way to escape from Father. Promise me you'll not tell a soul where I've gone.”

“But, Sandy—”

“Promise,” he cried, seizing her arm. “Promise that whatever happens you'll not tell. You must promise, Sue. If they follow me to Edinburgh and try to get me, I'll kill myself—I swear I will—”

“But supposing they're anxious—”

“No, you've to promise, Sue. I needn't have spoken to you at all and then you'd not have known.”

“I'd have been demented if you'd disappeared without a word,” she exclaimed.

“I knew that,” Sandy replied, squeezing her arm. “You're the only person in the world that cares a hoot what becomes of me.”

Sue was touched. She loved Sandy in spite of his faults, but she was aware that nobody else cared for him very deeply—even the Bullochs were more apt to see his faults than to appreciate his good points. She also saw that what he said was true and that he need not have spoken to her at all—how dreadful that would have been!

Sandy was watching her face. “I'd never have gone without saying good-bye to you,” he continued, quite oblivious of the fact that this had been his intention. “Never in this world. I wouldn't have thought of doing such a mean thing, so you must promise, Sue.”

“All right, I'll promise,” Sue said. “I won't tell anybody, but you must write and tell me how you get on—maybe they'll not take you,” she added hopefully.

“They'll take me,” Sandy declared. “I'll not tell them my real age, of course, and I'm big and strong. Oh, yes, they'll take me all right. I'll soon make my way in the army and maybe I'll get a commission—you never know.”

Sue had heard this sort of talk before, and her heart misgave her. “Don't be too—too sure of yourself,” she said, aware as the words left her lips that this was not what she had intended to say at all. It was a good thing to be sure of yourself, and if only Sandy would continue being sure of himself in the same sort of way he might make something of life. Sandy's aims were too unstable. He was blown this way and that with every breeze, and he embarked upon every project with a high heart and soaring ambitions.

“Don't worry,” said Sandy confidently. “You'll be proud of me yet, Sue. Just you wait.”

“I'm sure I shall,” she replied, taking his arm and looking up into his fair boyish face, “and I believe the army will be good for you—only you must stick to it, Sandy, and work hard and not expect too much at first. There will be lots of things you won't like, but we've all got to put up with things we don't like—”