The Cone Gatherers (5 page)

Duror noticed that in spite of the confidence in her voice the hand holding the telephone trembled. She seemed either insulted or dismayed. He guessed that within her was a struggle between her Christian sympathy for the weak-minded hunchback and her pride as a patrician, to whom hunting on her own estate was as sacred as singing in church.

Her voice now had that harsh edge which always denoted that she was about, for duty's sake, to assert her authority.

‘What do you make of this absurdity, Duror?' she asked. ‘He tells me that one of these men, the deformed one, has some kind of scruple about taking part in deer drives. Apparently he's excused them in the forest.'

‘What is his objection, my lady?'

‘You might well ask, Duror. Something dismally vague.'

‘They say he's next door to being an imbecile, my lady.'

‘That
would
be an explanation. What do you advise, Duror? Ought we to humour the fellow?'

It astonished Duror that she, so genuinely good, should be helping him in his plan of evil.

‘I think, my lady, he owes you something. He's earning his living in your wood.'

‘Yes, I suppose that's true. I wouldn't like,' she added, her voice a little shrill, ‘to be unfair.'

‘There are all kinds of shirkers, my lady. Did Mr Tulloch say these conscientious objectors had been at him?'

‘Apparently they have not. It seems they take part in deer drives. Our friend is unique.'

She uttered that last remark cuttingly, but remembered a moment after that the perfect exemplar of uniqueness was Christ Himself. She could not endure that rebuke, and snatched up the telephone.

‘Mr Tulloch?' she said haughtily. ‘I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. It seems we require every help we can get, otherwise the drive is sure to fail. Therefore I'd like your permission to approach your men. We shall do our best to protect their sensibilities. Is that all right then? Thank you. Good morning.'

She put down the telephone firmly.

‘He agreed all right,' she said, ‘but he did not sound at all pleased.'

Duror had discreetly sat down again while she was telephoning. Now he rose.

‘I'll talk to them, my lady,' he said. ‘I'm quite sure I can persuade them.'

‘Yes, please do, Duror.'

When he was at the door, she called sharply: ‘Duror!'

‘Yes, my lady.'

She was staring at her clasped hands. He was sure she had moved the portrait so that she could not see it.

Her voice was still harsh. ‘Are we being unfair to this poor wretch?' she asked. ‘After all, he is deformed, and a simpleton.'

‘He's an active man, my lady, and he's sensible enough to earn a pay.'

‘Yes, yes,' she said testily. ‘But he does seem to be abnormal. Heaven knows what may go on in his mind.'

He waited as she made up her mind.

‘I tell you what,' she said, ‘if you are convinced his reluctance is genuine, for whatever reason, just leave him in his tree to gather his cones. His brother alone will have to do.'

‘I doubt, my lady, if they'll separate.'

‘But good heavens, they're not children.'

‘I know, my lady, but they're always together; even in a tree where there's sometimes little room.'

‘In that case, Duror,' she cried, ‘they'll just have to come. We cannot have them dictating to us in every way.'

‘No, my lady.'

‘Be sure and tell them you have my and Mr Tulloch's authority.'

‘Yes, my lady.'

‘Oh, and by the way, Duror,' she said, with an attempt to restore the pleasantness and music to her voice, ‘tell your wife I'll be dropping in to see her soon.'

‘Thank you, my lady. I'll be sure to tell her. She'll appreciate it very much.'

Then he shut the door quietly, walked calmly along the corridor hung with stags' heads and cases of stuffed birds and fish, and entered the kitchen. To Mrs Morton's obvious annoyance Jean the maid was there, pert and talkative. He chatted for a minute or two, and then went to the door. Mrs Morton accompanied him.

In the sunshine his dogs showed their red pleased tongues.

Mrs Morton asked him in a whisper if he had told the mistress about the hunchback.

‘No,' he said.

She smiled nervously. ‘Maybe you should have, John.'

‘I've got to be sure, Effie. As you said yourself, such a charge would break the man. His life's not worth tuppence ha'penny, I fancy, but to him it's precious.'

‘It's generous of you to say that, John, especially when you've got such worries of your own.'

‘What worries, Effie?' he asked, with a laugh.

He thought, from her quick breathings and furtive peeps at the sky, that she wished to make some assignation but still found shame in the way.

He touched his cap and left her in her predicament. The dogs, so innocent of lust or hate or cunning, followed him like guardians.

They were safely in another good tree by the lochside. So brightly shone the sun, amongst the orange branches and on the blue water, it dazzled their eyes and made every cone glitter, so that they seemed to be plucking nuts of sunshine.

In Neil, so canny about admitting happiness, all the hindrances had vanished one by one, like the early mists over the loch. Now in the warmth and splendour he sang softly the sad Gaelic song that had been his mother's favourite: it was about a girl who, though without tocher or dowry, still did not lack sweethearts. He sang it in Gaelic, although his knowledge of that ancestral language was grown meagre and vague.

Among those hindrances to happiness had been the big gamekeeper. He could not forget Duror's quiet inconceivable hatred; and all last night he had felt that his and Calum's argument over the trapped rabbit would in some way be sensed by the gamekeeper, strengthening his vow to have them driven from the wood. In the morning sunlight, however, that fear of their desperate pity being detectable in the dead fur and glazed eyes seemed ridiculous. Duror would come to the ride, pick up the rabbit, and put it into his bag, without even thinking of them. Indeed, according to what Mr Tulloch had said, the gamekeeper had enough to worry him in that his wife had been an invalid for many years. If they kept out of his way, they would not be troubled by him; and how much more out of the way could they be than at the top of this ninety-foot larch?

Another hindrance had been the constant sight of the mansion house chimneys, reminding him of their hut, which to him remained a symbol of humiliation. But this
morning he remembered what Mr Tulloch had said about the lady: she was rich and high in rank, but she was also generous and just; and her son, the thin boy in the red cap, had waved to them and shouted in a friendly voice. Those people represented the power of the world, and so long as he was humble it would be benignant. He and Calum would be humble. In spite of his bitterness, humility and acquiescence in public had always been his instinctive defence: so far it had been successful enough.

The greatest and most persistent obstacle to his happiness was, of course, the fear of what would become of his brother if he were to die. Though he was a healthy man, except for his rheumatism in wet weather, he could meet with any of a number of likely accidents: a fall from a tree, for instance; a wound from axe or rutter, followed by lockjaw; pneumonia after a day's soaking on the hill; even an adder bite. Once, when suffering from a suppurating finger caused by a splinter from a fence stob, he had been chaffed by Mr Tulloch for looking so solemn and frightened over what, by manly standards, was a trivial injury. He had confided in the forester, who had listened with a smile of sympathy, and had assured him there was no need to worry about Calum, who would always find a place at Ardmore. Neil had learned that even kindness made promises it could not fulfil; but he had been grateful to Mr Tulloch, and afterwards his heart had been lighter. In the larch tree this morning, when he had examined that promise anew, he found it fresh and sound.

Therefore he was able to sing and look forward to Saturday's visit to Lendrick. They would go by the red bus which came all the way from Glasgow. The afternoon would be spent in shopping: groceries would have to be ordered, so that the van next week could leave them by the roadside; their rations of cigarettes and sweets would have to be got from old Mrs McTavish; and Calum needed a new shirt. If the herring drifters were in, perhaps they would stroll along after the shopping to visit the
Aphrodite
, whose captain and crew were their friends. Then they would have tea in the café overlooking the harbour, and would exchange news with Ardmore workmates who
would have cycled in by that time. Afterwards they might go into the hotel bar for half an hour or so. After the loneliness of the wood, Neil would enjoy sitting in a corner and smiling out at the noise and bustle of the crowd. His pint of beer in his hand would be the token of his membership of the community. When anything funny was said he would have permission to laugh as heartily as anybody else. Calum was always unhappy in the pub; but that could not be helped.

In the tree here was Calum's happiness. Here were his friends the finches, safe from the hawk scouting above. The ground of snares and stumbles was far below. In the loch the seals were playing, with audible splashes. In a nearby Douglas fir cushat doves were crooning. Above all, his brother beside him was singing. So much present joy was there for him he did not have to look forward. He did not wonder, as Neil sometimes did, whether the cones he was gathering would be fertile; nor did he see the great trees born from this seed in his hands being toppled down in fifty years' time to make ammunition boxes for that generation's war. He was as improvident as the finches to whom he had fed more than half of his morning slice of bread.

Yet it was he who first saw the gamekeeper approaching through the sunshine and shadow of the wood, with his three glossy dogs running silently in front. In agitation he stretched over to touch Neil, and point.

Neil paused in his singing and picking to watch Duror. The latter, he thought, must be on a patrol of the wood, looking for deer or foxes or weasels to shoot. Even if he saw their ladder against the tree, and from it learned where they were, he would still pass by. While they were gathering cones, they were none of his business: his own mistress had given them permission.

‘It's all right,' he murmured to Calum. ‘He's got nothing to do with us. He'll pass by.'

Indeed, as he watched the gamekeeper now in and now out of sight on the dappled ground among the trees, he felt the sympathy he could never withhold when he saw any human being alone in a vast place, on a hillside
say, or here in a wood. Unlike his brother, he saw nature as essentially hostile; and its resources to take away a man's confidence were immense. He felt sure, for instance, that the gamekeeper treading on the withered leaves must be thinking of his sick wife.

In a clearing Duror halted, laid down his gun, took his binoculars out of their case, and trained them on the top of the larch.

Neil knew that they must be clearly visible; it seemed to him typical of nature that the foliage was gone which would have hidden them. It took an effort to go on picking cones. He told Calum to keep on picking too. He objected to this spying on them, but would not show it even by stopping work.

Calum could not concentrate on the cones. He became like an animal in danger with no way of escape. He began to whimper, and tilting over in a panicky attempt to hide from that distant scrutiny he let some cones dribble out of his bag.

‘What's the matter with you?' asked Neil. ‘Aye, I ken he's looking at us. But where's the harm in that? He's just doing his work, like you and me. Maybe he's not looking at us at all. Maybe it's that hawk we saw that he's looking at. Didn't I tell you, that if we keep out of his way, he can't harm us? Well, we're out of his way up here.'

Calum was not reassured; he still whimpered and cowered, like a dog in the presence of someone who has been cruel to it.

Neil's own fear suddenly increased. He became angry.

‘What are you moaning for?' he demanded. ‘I ken he doesn't like us, but we don't like him either. This wood doesn't belong to him; it belongs to the lady and she's given us permission to climb the trees and pick the cones. You heard Mr Tulloch say it. As long as we don't saw branches off and injure the trees, nobody would interfere with us, he said. Have we ever sawn any branches off?'

He repeated that last question in a passion of resentment, for on most trees the best harvest of cones was on the tips of branches too far out from the trunk to be
reached. If sawing was permitted, then those branches, so small as hardly to be noticed, could be dropped to the ground where it would be easy and safe to strip them of every cone. The trees' wounds would soon heal, the yield of cones would be doubled, and the strain on arms, legs, and back would be greatly relieved.

‘The trees are more precious than we are,' he added bitterly.

Duror was returning the binoculars to their case. That done, with the buckle properly fastened, he picked up his gun, called on the dogs, and with leisurely stride made straight for the larch.

‘Oh, he's coming, Neil,' cried Calum.

‘What of it?'

‘Maybe he'll shoot at us!'

‘If you can't talk sense, Calum, don't talk at all. Why should he shoot at us? Do you think he takes us for crows? He kens fine who we are. Whether he likes us or not, we're men, and you can't shoot men as if they were crows.' He remembered that in the war being fought far from there, men were being shot in greater numbers and with bitterer hatred than ever crows were. ‘He's just making for the loch,' he muttered.

Again they caught a glimpse of the gamekeeper. He was still heading towards them, but by no means with the hurrying stagger of a man with violence in his mind. He walked calmly, taking time to duck under low branches and lift tendrils of brier out of his way.

It was likely enough, thought Neil, or it should be, that a man walking by himself in a great wood, catching sight of other human beings, should want to exchange a word or two with them. Duror then would advance to the foot of the tree and shout up something about the fine weather or about the war. He, Neil, would shout down a reply. Then Duror would go on his way. In this world of trees it was necessary for human beings to maintain contact. In the ocean survivors of a torpedoed ship did not refuse to be rescued by enemies.

‘If he stops to talk,' said Neil, ‘you're not to be frightened. I'll answer him.'

Calum nodded; he had crept as close to his brother as he could.

Duror came under the tree and halted. They could not see him clearly because of the screen of branches. He spoke quietly to his dogs. Then, to Neil's astonishment and Calum's terror, he began to climb the ladder.

‘It's all right,' whispered Neil. ‘I tell you it's all right. We've got nothing to be afraid of.'

He thought it must be all right. There could be no other explanation of this visit than curiosity. Seeing the ladder, Duror had wanted to climb up. In so grave a man, such a boyish impulse was perhaps odd; but in a way it was also reassuring. This larch was their present address; here was the formidable gamekeeper paying them a friendly visit; the ladder against the tree would seem like a door open. Doubtlessly he had left his gun on the ground.

They heard the scrapes and thumps of his nailed boots on the rungs and then on the branches. A branch cracked suddenly. He exclaimed as if in anger, and paused for a full minute. When he resumed he climbed even more slowly than before. Soon he stopped again. He was still a long way below.

They waited, but he did not start to climb again. For three or four minutes they waited. Still he remained motionless and silent. One of the dogs barked unhappily.

They thought he must have climbed as high as he wished, and now was admiring the view of the loch. After all, the tree was not private just because they happened to be in it; the ladder, too, belonged to the estate. At the same time Neil felt curiously embarrassed and could not think to start gathering cones again. Calum kept shivering.

They were far from guessing the truth, that Duror had ceased to climb because of fear; that, weak and dizzy and full of shame, he was clinging with ignominious tightness; that the dread of the descent was making him sick; and that he had almost forgotten his purpose in ascending to them.

At last Neil had to end the suspense.

‘Hello, Mr Duror,' he called. ‘It's a grand day, isn't it?'

No reply came.

Neil tried again.

‘Do you want to talk to us about something?' he shouted.

This time, after another long delay, there was a reply. They were surprised by the mildness of his voice. It was so faint too they had to strain to hear it.

‘I've got a message for you,' he said.

‘A message? Is it from Mr Tulloch?'

There was a pause. ‘Aye, from him.'

‘Have we to go back home, to Ardmore?' cried Neil hopefully.

‘You know these woods belong to Lady Runcie-Campbell?'

‘We know that.'

‘She wants you as beaters in a deer drive this afternoon.'

Neil was shocked.

‘But we're here to gather cones,' he yelled. ‘She can't order us about. She's not our mistress.'

‘She telephoned Tulloch. He said you've to work for her this afternoon.'

‘How could he? Didn't he tell us we'd to gather every cone we could? Didn't he ask us to work as much overtime as we liked? What's the good of all that if we're to be taken away for deer drives.' Neil's voice grew hoarse with indignation. ‘My brother's never asked to take part in deer hunts,' he shouted. ‘Mr Tulloch knows that. I don't believe he knows anything about this. It's just a trick to get us to work for the lady.'

Duror was silent. His triumph was become a handful of withered leaves. When he had seen the ladder, he had thought how gratifying it would be to deliver the deadly message to them in the eyrie where they fancied themselves safe. He had not anticipated this lightheadedness, this heaving of the stationary tree, this treachery of nature, this sickening of his very will to hate. He had never dreamed that he would not be able to do once only what
the hunchback did several times a day. It seemed to him that he must therefore be far more ill and decayed than he had thought. He was like a tree still straight, still showing green leaves; but underground death was creeping along the roots.

As he clung, he tried to remember whether as a boy or youth he had had a good head for climbing; but his memories too were giddy and he could not sort them out.

‘If my brother is excused deer drives in the forest,' Neil was shouting, ‘why should he be made to take part in one here? I'm sure Mr Tulloch never gave any such order. It's a trick, that's what it is.'