The morning came grey but fine. After attending out-patients in the forenoon, he took the one o’clock “workman’s special” from Winton Central. This was a low-fare train—the price of the ticket, unbelievably, was fourpence—which ran down the Clyde estuary, serving the shipyard workers en route. He had the new belt with him—Bryce, anticipating trouble, had actually bought it as a spare some weeks before, and had willingly turned it over to him in his easy-going style. At Levenford Junction he changed to the single line, and just after half-past two, as the sun was breaking through the clouds, drew into Craigdoran.
The little white station with its flowering hawthorn and tangle of climbing honeysuckle now wore a familiar aspect. The scent of the honeysuckle filled the air and he heard the hum of an early bee. Two youths, dressed for climbing, with packs on their backs, got out of the train before him. They went into the refreshment room where, peering through the ground-glass window, he saw Mary wrap in waxed paper the sandwiches they bought. Then the youths came out and Mary, following them to the door, looked searchingly along the platform.
“It’s you.” She smiled. “I was beginning to be afraid you’d not come. Is your knee better?”
She beckoned him in, made him sit down. The cat approached and rubbed against his leg.
“I’m sure you’ve not had your lunch. I’ll fetch you some sandwiches and a glass of milk.”
“Please don’t,” he said. “I’ve had a snack . . . in the . . . the buffet at Levenford Junction.”
“Dear me,” she said quizzically, rather like her father, raising her brows. “That’s extraordinar’ peculiar. There never has been a buffet at the Junction.” From the glass bell on the counter she took a plate of sandwiches, then poured a frothing glass of milk. “There’ll be scarcely another soul in here over the weekend and I can’t see good food go to waste. You’ll just have to oblige me, this once.”
A moment later she seated herself opposite him, struggling, it seemed, against some inner effervescence which grew suddenly beyond control.
“I have news for you,” she exclaimed. “You’ve made a most tremendous hit.”
“What!” He drew back, misunderstanding her.
“Walter,” her lips twitched, “has taken the greatest notion of you. Ever since you left he’s done nothing but sing your praises. You’re such a nice young fellow.” She fought down laughter. “He’s quite cut up at missing you tonight—he’s attending a meeting of the Municipal Officials’ Guild in Winton—and I’m to give you his best regrets.” She went on before he could speak. “He’s fixed up a rare jaunt for us tomorrow. We’re to sail round the Kyles of Bute, stop for lunch at Gairsay, then back home.”
He stared at her with a blank frown.
“But I can’t possibly come down again tomorrow.”
“No need to,” she said calmly. “Father says you’re to stay over with us. You can sleep with our Willie.”
Still he frowned at her; then, gradually, his brow cleared. Never had he met such simple, open-hearted people. He had no out-patients at the Infirmary tomorrow, and surely would not lose much by missing just one day’s work. Besides, Sunday in Winton was an unspeakable day which he had always loathed.
“You’ll come?” she queried.
“With pleasure. And now I must mend the bike.”
“It’s in the left luggage. Dougal put it there out of the way.”
For the next hour he worked, fitting the new belt, which had to be cut and riveted. She came in occasionally to watch, not saying anything, just watching companionably. When he had finished he wheeled out the machine and started it up.
“How about a spin?”
She looked at him doubtfully, a hand on her ear against the frantic blast of the exhaust.
“It’s quite safe,” he reassured her. “You just sit on the carrier and hold tight.”
“I can’t get away till the four-thirty comes in. But afterwards, maybe you could take me home. I could ring up Father from the booking office and spare him coming out.”
“That’s settled then,” he said gaily.
An unusual mood of lightheartedness took possession of him. Whether due to his escape from work, or the fresh green country-side, he felt lifted up, as though breathing a rarer, brighter air. Until she should be free, and to test the machine, he took a fast run over the hill to Tulliehewan. When he returned, she was all ready to leave. Since Darkie must stay behind she had set out a saucer of milk for his supper.
“So this is where I get on,” she said, perching side-saddle on the carrier.
“You can’t sit like that. You’ll fall off. You must sit astride.”
She hesitated, then swung one leg across, modestly, yet so inexpertly that before he averted his eyes a sweet prospect was momentarily revealed to him. Blushing, she said:
“I’m not quite up to it yet.”
“You’re doing famously.”
Quickly he got into the saddle and set off. At first he went slowly, carefully avoiding the bumps, then, as he felt her gain confidence, he opened the throttle. They tore along, over the moors, the wind whistling past their ears. Her arms were clasped round his waist, her head, turned sideways, was pressed against his, shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he shouted.
“Fine,” she called back.
“Enjoying it?”
“It’s . . . it’s glorious. I’ve never gone so fast in all my life.”
They were doing at least thirty miles an hour.
When he pulled up at the shop in Ardfillan her cheeks were glowing, her hair blown and burnished by the breeze.
“What a treat.” She laughed into his eyes, swaying a trifle unsteadily, still drunk with speed. “Come on up. I must run and tidy. I’m sure I’m a perfect sight.”
His welcome by the baker was cordial, and by Willie even more enthusiastic than before. The aunt, however, seemed to accept him with fresh reservations, her eye speculative, at times tending coldly towards suspicion—though he softened her later by listening attentively to her symptoms and suggesting a cordial that might help her shortness of breath. The meal she set before them was macaroni cheese, a wholesome repast though lacking, inevitably, in those refinements that had been produced for Walter. Thereafter the evening passed quietly. Moray played draughts with the baker and was handsomely beaten three times in a row, while Mary, on a low stool by the fireside, worked on a piece of crochet which was clearly intended for her trousseau. Watching it develop, he could not help wondering if it was an edging for a nightdress—a warm, indulgent thought, not lewd. From time to time she would look at the clock and remark, with sedate concern, wholly unlike the girl full of humour and high spirits who had whirled gaily through space with him only an hour ago: “Walter will be at his meeting now.” And again: “Surely he’ll get a chance to give his speech. He wrote it all out so careful, and was so set on making it.” And finally: “He should be on his way to the train by this time. I hope he remembered his overshoes, he’s such a martyr to cold feet.”
They all retired early. In Willie’s back room, which over-looked the yard, Moray had his first real talk with the boy, whose shyness had hitherto kept him silent. It appeared that as a school prize he had recently received an exciting book on David Livingstone, and soon they were in the wilds of Africa together, discovering Lake Nyanza, deploring the ravages of beri-beri and the tsetse fly. Moray had to answer a spate of eager questions, but at last he turned out the light and presently they were asleep.
Chapter Three
Next morning Walter arrived punctually at half-past nine, greeting Moray like an old friend, full of his success on the previous evening. Although a number of ill-bred bounders had left the hall before the conclusion of his address, he had spoken extremely well, and for a good three-quarters of an hour. Having fully earned this day of relaxation he was in the mood to enjoy it. Nothing had pleased him more, he added, than to organise the expedition.