The Shadow of the Sycamores (8 page)

‘He could surely have waited a while but, never mind, you’ll be fine here wi’ me till you find something else. Henry, where are you going?’ she added as he got to his feet again.

‘I’ve to tell the carrier to take a bike back to the grieve. I’ll not be long.’

He returned after only ten minutes, looking a little less distraught than when he had come in before, but his face fell again when Abby said, ‘You’ll be sleeping in Gramma’s bed. I’ve put a pig in to heat it for you.’ Noticing his agitation, she smiled, ‘I’ve washed all the bedding, Henry.’

‘Abby, I canna …’

‘All right, then. I’ll sleep in her bed and you can have mine.’

Henry fell asleep quickly, exhausted in body and mind, but his sister lay awake for hours, thinking about Pogie Laing. She’d often wondered how he got the nickname because his real name was Clarence, according to the minister. At Gramma’s funeral, he had gripped her hand for a long time and his eyes had burned into hers as if he wanted to say something other than how sorry he was.

She had turned seventeen, time for having a lad, and Pogie was the lad she wanted. She had hoped he might come to see her now that she was alone in the house but he wouldn’t come if he knew Henry was back.

In spite of that side of it, though, she was glad her brother had come back to her. She had never seen him so upset as he’d been when he came in and he had comforted her twice before so it was up to her now. They would surely manage. It would
be a struggle but it shouldn’t be long till he found another job. Even though he was so short, he was a hard worker, with an ever-ready smile, willing to do anything.

The Sycamores had once been the residence of a very minor peer of the realm who had been forced by circumstances, in the middle of the century, to sell up and emigrate to South Africa. The purchaser of the estate, an Aberdeenshire man now permanently domiciled in London but mindful of his roots although he was an immensely rich businessman, had founded an institution for the mentally afflicted. This had been in the charge of Innes Ledingham for the past twelve years. He was a strict disciplinarian as far as his staff was concerned but sympathetic and understanding with his patients, male and female, who ranged from fifteen or sixteen years of age to eighty and over.

Because of steadily rising costs – wages, food, oil and coal – he had applied, about five years earlier, to the now deceased owner’s sons for extra funding. He had been told, however, that they were in financial difficulties themselves and that he would have to start charging the families of the ‘unfortunates’ for looking after them – otherwise they would have to close the place. After discussing this with the board of governors, Innes had decided to set the fees high enough to cover the few places he meant to keep for the ‘truly poor or destitute’ but, sadly, there was currently only one such place available now.

The introduction of fees had certainly upgraded the type of people under his wing, effectively wiping out the slavering incontinents and other undesirables. It was rather unfortunate that those not in this range, and with no relatives left to provide money for their keep, had also had to be transferred to parish-run asylums but it was really out of his control. It was now much easier to recruit nurses and young girls to tend to the
needs of the residents and just one male orderly was needed in case of any trouble.

The only problem he now had, Innes reflected one day, was in getting incidental workers. Those employed to actually come in contact with the patients were dedicated to looking after them whereas some of the gardeners, grooms and odd-job men he had taken on seemed to be afraid that they were endangering their lives by working at The Sycamores. He was quite fortunate with his present company, however, every man and woman willing to do whatever was asked of them and, more importantly, all scrupulously honest and reliable.

He had been a little unsure of young Henry Rae at first, with him never having had any experience outside farm work, but he was proving to be a veritable treasure. No work was too demanding – or too demeaning – for him and staff and patients alike adored him and sought his advice on their little problems, real or imaginary – even Gloria, his own wife. Innes felt grateful to the youth for this – it saved her pestering him.

An apprehension lurked at the back of his mind, however, a feeling that perhaps things were running too smoothly. The elderly matron and the two nurses of indeterminate age were not the cause of this – it was the four girls, employed because they needed less pay than the older women. They were all bright, nubile young things and Henry was a dashed good-looking lad. He had dark curly hair, a round tanned face, which would no doubt lose its chubbiness as he grew older, and dark green eyes that always held a smile. There was no flabbiness about him and, although he was quite small for his age, there was still time for him to grow. When he was fully grown, he would have a devastating effect on the female sex, that was a certainty.

Innes pulled his meandering thoughts together. By all appearances, he had nothing to worry about as far as the girls were concerned. Young Henry had shown not the slightest interest in any of them. He treated them in the same friendly, light-hearted manner that he treated everybody he spoke to but, strangely, he kept himself to himself after work. Lack of interest
in women could, of course, mean that he was homosexual yet he showed no interest there either. Innes decided that it was as well to let life go on as usual. He was only stressing himself by worrying about something, he knew not what, that may never happen. A far more exciting concept had stirred in him recently, a concept which would require much consideration and careful handling to reach fruition.

Henry felt it his duty to keep an eye on old Mrs Emslie; after all, he owed his job to Janet. She and her brother could only visit their mother once a month and the old lady must miss them. She had made friends with a few of the other women – if you could call it friendship with each keeping to her own train of thought, content to receive no answers to or comments on what she said.

He was fully aware that Mrs Emslie had taken a fancy to him the first day he went to see her but he hadn’t realised until that afternoon how she really felt about him. One of the nurses, a keen lover of nature, had been taking three of her charges for a stroll around the grounds when Janet’s mother spotted him dead-heading some hydrangeas.

‘That’s my son, you know,’ she said loudly – and proudly.

Thoroughly embarrassed, he had mumbled, ‘No, I just work here. I’m helping the gardener today but I do other jobs as well. My name’s Henry Rae.’

A pained uncertainty had flitted across her lined face, then she turned to her companions. ‘I can’t think what’s making him say that. Fancy not minding his own mother.’

He had shot a look of appeal to the nurse who soothed, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Emslie. We should be getting on. Henry’s too busy to speak to anybody just now.’

He bent his scarlet face to his work again, praying that her ploy had worked. It had because, as they moved away, one of the other women observed, ‘What a lot of these wing things there are lying about here.’

And Mrs Emslie said, ‘They’re the seeds from the sycamore trees.’ She hesitated for a moment, then, having put two and
two together, added proudly, ‘I suppose that’s why they called this place The Sycamores?’

Their escort nodded thankfully. ‘That’s right and the winged bits are called samaras.’

To a chorus of ‘Samaras? I didn’t know that,’ the little group moved out of earshot.

Henry didn’t lift his head or pause in what he was doing. He had gleaned many titbits of information about the flowers while he worked with the head gardener, but he’d had no idea that the lovely old trees scattered about the grounds were sycamores, nor that their seeds were called samaras. It was a funny name – but interesting. Intriguing.

The next day was one of Janet’s Sundays, as he thought of them, so he would have to make a point of seeing her to explain what had happened.

‘Isn’t that your friend Henry standing at the gate?’ Roderick Emslie asked his sister.

‘Yes, it is.’ Janet felt as if a heavy weight had fallen on her. ‘He looks awful worried – something must be wrong with Ma. You’d better stop. Yes, Henry,’ she called as the small vehicle came to a halt, ‘what is it?’

‘I wanted to catch you before you went in,’ he muttered. ‘I want to explain about yesterday. I don’t know why but your mother thinks I’m her son. I didn’t do anything to … I did try to tell her she was wrong but … I’m sorry,’ he added a little belatedly.

‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ she soothed. ‘The very first time we came to see her, she said she wasn’t my mother. The doctor says it often happens. They honestly don’t remember. How are you getting on? Still liking the job?’

‘I love it,’ he assured her, relieved that his worry had been banished so effectively. ‘I’ll always be grateful to you for speaking up for me, Janet.’

She grinned at him. ‘It was a two-way good turn. I was helping Innes Ledingham as well as you. He’s an old friend of mine.’

Her brother lifted the reins. ‘It’s good of you to look in on
my mother occasionally,’ he smiled as the gig moved away.

The sturdy pony trotted up the wide avenue, thick with the samaras the birds picked up and spread farther afield, carrying on the cycle of propagation. Mr Ledingham was also waiting for them they discovered when they came to a final stop at the imposing oaken door.

Despite being pleased to see him, Janet’s heart turned over with the fear of what he might have to tell them. But he, like Henry, had a worry of his own. ‘Janet, I wonder if you would mind coming through to my sitting room for a moment. There is something I would like to discuss with you … privately.’

She glanced at her brother who said, ‘It’s all right. I’ll go in and talk to Mother.’

Shutting the door behind them, Innes said, ‘I hope you do not think this an imposition but I have a problem you may be able to solve … if you will.’

‘I’ll do my best whatever it is,’ she smiled, flattered that he was asking her help. ‘Just tell me …’

‘It is rather embarrassing. You see, my wife had an argument with our cook, over nothing at all really – she has a vile temper at times, Gloria, I mean – and it ended with Mrs Gall walking out. I told Gloria she would have to take over the duty until I found another cook and she told me …’ he hesitated, his face flaming, his eyes held down.

‘Go on,’ Janet urged, softly.

‘She told me she had had enough of this place and I could jolly well do it myself.’

‘And?’

‘And she has … left me.’

‘When was this?’

‘Last Monday. So, you see, she will not be coming back.’

Realisation of his target was dawning. ‘Who has been making the meals?’

‘The nurses and the maids have taken it in turn but some of the residents are beginning to complain and I do not blame them at the prices we charge.’

‘Have you tried to find a replacement – for the cook?’

‘I have tried but the agencies say no one is willing to come to a place like this.’

‘That’s terrible!’ Janet exclaimed. ‘The Sycamores is a very nice place.’

‘To people who know no better, it is simply an asylum, a madhouse, but you …’ He broke off but his meaning was quite clear now.

There was a pause before Janet said, ‘You’re offering me the job?’

‘I am asking you to take pity on me, Janet.’

His pleading eyes, his look of utter defeat, were not genuine but, although she knew she was being manipulated, she could not refuse him. ‘I’ll have to work my notice at Craigdownie,’ she said quietly.

‘How long?’

‘A month? I don’t know.’

After thinking for a minute or so, Innes said, his voice low and caressing, ‘There is a way to get round that, you know.’

Janet’s eyes showed her bewilderment. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your mother.’

‘What has my mother got to do with this? I want to take the job, Innes. I want to be where I can see her every day but I’ll have to work out my notice.’

‘Not if you tell your present employer that your mother is … dying.’

‘I knew it!’ she cried, apprehension widening her eyes. ‘I knew you had bad news but why didn’t you tell me right away, instead of …’

‘No, Janet, do not alarm yourself. Your mother is not dying. It was a suggestion – a way to make the farmer free you from any commitment. Do you understand?’ He waited, watching her changing expressions – perplexity, angry comprehension, doubt and, finally, guilt. ‘I canna,’ she muttered at last, her confusion making her forget that she had been trying to speak to him, a university graduate, in a more refined manner. ‘I canna tell a lie, nae a lie like that. Besides, it’s asking for trouble.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it is a lie but it is not malicious. It will hurt no one and benefit many – you, your mother, the residents and staff here and … me.’

‘But Mr Legge will be left without a cook.’

He could see that she was wavering. ‘He, unlike me, will easily find another. Oh, Janet, please?’ He took her hand and squeezed it.

The entreaty in his eyes, or maybe it was more than that, was her downfall. ‘I’ll try,’ she whispered. ‘I will try, Innes, but I can’t promise anything. He sacked Henry for taking some days off, remember?’

Exultant now, sure it would work out as he hoped, Innes kept his voice on an even keel. ‘You said that he did not know of the grandmother’s death.’ His free hand slid around her waist.

Savouring the thrill of it, it was some seconds before Janet pushed him away. ‘No, Innes. Don’t try to take advantage. I’m doing this for my mother’s sake and to help you out but don’t forget you are a married man.’

His eyes darkening, he murmured, ‘I am sorry, Janet. I honestly did not mean to take advantage. I was merely expressing my joy at having my problem solved.’

‘It’s not definitely solved,’ she reminded him.

‘I have confidence in you, my dear, and, to prove it, I shall send my carriage to collect you and your belongings tomorrow afternoon, around two o’clock. That will give you time to prepare their breakfast and lunch and to do your packing.’