Poverty Castle Page 6

  ‘When have we to come?’ asked Effie.

  ‘What about tomorrow at three? Would that suit?’ Edwin couldn’t keep his eyes off Diana.

  ‘That would suit fine,’ said Jeanie.

  ‘Where are you living now?’ asked Lady Campton.

  Diana replied. ‘In Bell Heather Cottage. Poverty Castle won’t be ready until September.’

  ‘Is that really what your father’s going to call it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s going to put it on the gate,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Good God!’

  Courteously they withdrew. The dogs whined with disappointment at not being allowed to go with them.

  ‘Shall we send a car for you?’ cried Edwin.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Diana. ‘There is no need. We shall come in the Daimler.’

  Seven

  ‘I HOPE you didn’t invite yourselves,’ said Mama.

  ‘Of course we didn’t,’ said Diana.

  ‘Sometimes you do, you know.’

  ‘Well we didn’t this time. Did we?’

  Her sisters shook their heads.

  ‘The lady said “Hell!”’ said Rebecca.

  ‘She said “Good God!” three times,’ said Rowena, who would remember to say it herself when acting the part of a lady with a title and a Big House.

  ‘She made noises like this,’ said Effie, and she imitated Lady Campton’s snorts.

  ‘Good heavens, girls, I hope you weren’t rude to the poor woman.’

  ‘She’s not poor,’ said Jeanie. ‘She’s got a gold wristwatch with diamonds in it.’

  ‘Her perfume was lovely,’ said Rowena.

  ‘I don’t know how you could smell it,’ said Effie. ‘She was sweaty, like us.’

  ‘The dogs were beautiful,’ said Jeanie. ‘When are we going to get dogs, Mama?’

  ‘When we move into our new home.’

  They had noticed how Mama avoided calling it Poverty Castle.

  ‘We liked Edwin, but we didn’t like Nigel,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘All he did was sneer,’ said Effie. ‘He said Poverty Castle should belong to them because it’s on their land. It isn’t on their land, is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s surrounded by their land.’

  ‘The lady’s got a very big nose,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Rebecca darling, it’s not nice to make personal remarks.’

  ‘So has Edwin,’ said Effie, ‘but he’s got good manners.’ She mimicked Edwin’s accent. ‘Shawl we send a caur for you?’

  Even Mama laughed. Diana did not, though.

  ‘He fell in love with Diana,’ said Jeanie. ‘He said she was jolly brave facing up to the dogs.’

  Diana’s lips were tight.

  ‘Quite a lot seems to have happened in a short time,’ said Mama.

  ‘Can we go and play cricket tomorrow?’ asked Effie.

  ‘I suppose so but you’ll have to ask Papa.’

  ‘He’ll say yes,’ said Jeanie. ‘He always does.’

  ‘He’s not feeling too well disposed towards Sir Edwin, whose lawyers have been sending letters.’

  ‘If you say we can go, Mama, Papa will say it too,’ said Rowena.

  ‘Yes, Mama, he always agrees with you,’ said Effie.

  ‘Not quite always, my dear.’

  They couldn’t remember any such occasion. It must have happened when they weren’t there.

  Papa had been on a visit to Tarbeg to see about a consignment of timber that was late in arriving. He had called on Mr Patterson who had shown him the most recent letter from London solicitors acting for Sir Edwin Campton. It stated that, according to the agreement drawn up when Ardmore was sold to the Braidlaws sixty years ago, the estate had to be given first option to buy back. It was hinting that Sir Edwin was contemplating taking the matter to court. ‘Mere bluster,’ Mr Patterson had said, cheerfully. ‘Pique and bluster. The estate was given first option. Their offer was unacceptable. Legally they haven’t a leg to stand on. Your right to the house, Mr Sempill, is unassailable. I have replied in those terms. We shall hear no more about it.’

  The girls listened while Papa recounted all this to Mama. They had not yet told of their adventure.

  ‘These bloody English, Meg, they think they have bought us, body and soul.’

  ‘I hope Mr Patterson is sure of his ground, my dear. It would be a great pity if you were to make this house habitable, at much expense, only to find it taken from you by law.’

  ‘I would blow it up before I let that happen.’

  ‘But would that not please Sir Edwin? Doesn’t he want to own the house so that he can raze it to the ground, as Mr Patterson said?’

  ‘How could I be a good neighbour to a man plotting behind my back to undo me?’

  ‘Perhaps he is not so vindictive. We do not know the gentleman.’

  ‘He shall find me resolute. I tell you this, I shall never go near that man’s place.’

  Effie could hold her tongue no longer. ‘You’ll have to, Papa, because you wouldn’t let Mama drive the car.’

  That was unfair, Mama had been given lessons. She had landed the car in a ditch.

  Diana then described their encounter with the Camptons.

  ‘Was he there?’ cried Papa, purple with anger.

  ‘No. Just Lady Campton and the two boys.’

  ‘How dare she accuse you of trespassing.’

  ‘But we were trespassing, Papa.’

  ‘Ridiculous. Less than half a mile away from your home. If those dogs had bitten you I would have had him jailed.’

  ‘They were very friendly dogs,’ said Jeanie.

  ‘Will you drive us there, Papa, or will we go on our bikes?’ asked Effie.

  ‘I’m not sure that you should go at all. How do we know that they haven’t invited you just to humiliate you?’

  ‘Please, Edward, give them credit for more genuine breeding than that.’

  ‘Meg, tinkers on the shore have more genuine breeding than many so-called aristocrats.’

  ‘It was Edwin invited us,’ said Jeanie. ‘We trust him.’

  ‘If Nigel wanted to be nasty to us Edwin wouldn’t let him,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘I wouldn’t let him,’ cried Effie, clenching her fist.

  Mama sighed. ‘If I thought you were going there to brawl, Effie, I would have to refuse permission.’

  ‘We promised, Mama, so we’ll have to go,’ said Diana. ‘It will be all right. We know how to behave ourselves.’

  ‘Of course you do, darling. Do you know, Edward, I don’t think we could send more persuasive envoys. Who would not want our girls as neighbours?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Papa, ‘but do not let them patronise you.’

  ‘As if anyone could,’ murmured Mama.

  ‘What does patronise mean?’ asked Effie.

  ‘It means making you feel you’re their servants or at any rate beholden to them.’

  Rowena smiled, scenting opportunities.

  ‘We’ll just act like ourselves,’ said Effie.

  ‘Do that, my darlings,’ said Mama, ‘and you will be invincible.’

  Eight

  USUALLY THE girls liked to dress differently, each according to her taste, the twins often counting as one, but for the cricketing expedition to the Big House they all wore white dresses, white socks, and white sandshoes. They still showed individuality by the ribbons in their hair, white in Diana’s case, yellow in the twins’, blue in Rowena’s, and red in Rebecca’s. They were freshly bathed: it meant Papa’s exclusion from the bathroom for three hours. From the window they had seen him sneaking behind the garden shed, to listen to the birds he would have said, but they knew better.

  Mama went with them in the car. ‘Insist on playing with a soft ball. I hope they remember you’re girls.’

  Effie was indignant. ‘We’re girls, Mama, but we’re not softies.’

  The drive up to the Big House was weedy.

  ‘Why did they buy this place if they weren�
�t going to keep it in decent order?’ grumbled Papa.

  He stopped the car as soon as the house came in sight, about two hundred yards away.

  ‘Couldn’t we go a little bit closer, darling?’ said Mama. ‘I would like a good look at it.’

  ‘What is there to see, Meg? It is merely an eighteenth-century mansion of no great architectural distinction. It does not fit in well with its surroundings as you can see, unlike the house it replaced, a sixteenth-century castle, bleak but dignified. It has two state-rooms of fair size with painted ceilings (naked nymphs and gods, that sort of thing) but inside and out there is not much of particular interest.’

  He was quoting from a book on the stately homes of Scotland. Kilcalmonell House merited only eight lines and no pictures.

  The girls were curious about the naked nymphs and gods.

  ‘We’ll have to ask Edwin if we can get seeing them,’ said Effie.

  ‘You mustn’t embarrass the poor boy,’ said Mama. ‘It may not be a handsome building, Edward, but it is certainly large.’

  ‘No more than forty rooms, I assure you.’

  ‘Forty!’ cried the girls, astounded.

  ‘Some stately homes have hundreds. Bear in mind that the Camptons, on his side at any rate, are no more blue-blooded than we are ourselves.’

  ‘We read a story in which a boy had green blood,’ said Effie. ‘He came from an alien planet.’

  ‘He ate daisies,’ said Jeanie.

  ‘But Lady Campton’s family is aristocratic,’ said Mama. ‘Isn’t her father Lord Marsley?’

  ‘Who ever heard of the Marsleys? I have no objections to titles, provided the right people are ennobled.’

  Mama smiled. He had once confided to her that he would have liked to be Sir Edward or better still Lord Sempill.

  ‘You will see that Sir Edwin looks no more distinguished than the man who delivers our milk.’

  He drove the car forward until they could see people on the grass outside the house.

  He had brought binoculars. He looked through them. ‘That’s him, seated in the deckchair. Look, Meg. If you ask me an oaf, an arrogant oaf.’

  Mama took the binoculars. ‘I can’t see his face for his hat.’ She was more interested in Lady Campton. Alas, her face too was obscured.

  ‘Drive right up, darling,’ she said. ‘Be bold.’

  ‘We’re late enough as it is, Papa,’ said Effie.

  ‘Princes are punctual,’ said Jeanie.

  Nettled by insinuation that he was timid Papa sent the car roaring up to the house.

  In their deckchairs Sir Edwin was reading a newspaper, his wife a book. Both were smoking: in Papa’s opinion a plebian habit. Sir Edwin wore a floppy white hat, she a wide-brimmed one. They raised their heads and stared at the visitors.

  ‘He doesn’t look arrogant, Edward,’ murmured Mama. He did look rather oafish though, but she didn’t say so. There were people who didn’t think Edward looked very intelligent at times. One of them was Granny Ruthven. Her word for him was glaikit.

  Wearing a cap of many colours and white shorts held up by a tie, Nigel was ready for cricket, with pads on and a bat in his hand. Edwin, also in white shorts and shirt, was holding the ball. It did not look soft, though he himself did, soft and nice, with his shy smile. Not only his nose was big, so were his ears.

  ‘Where are the dogs?’ asked Jeanie.

  ‘Out you get girls,’ said Papa. ‘I’ll come back for you at five prompt. Be ready. I would not wish to wait here a moment longer than necessary.’

  He turned the car and raced it down the drive, making the gravel spurt.

  The sun still shone. It was going to be a good afternoon for cricket.

  The girls walked over and presented themselves to their hostess.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lady Campton,’ they said.

  She hardly looked up from her book. ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Who was driving that car?’ cried Sir Edwin.

  They turned and faced him. They were not going to let him or anyone else say anything bad about Papa.

  ‘Our father,’ said Diana.

  ‘In a devil of a hurry, wasn’t he? Did he want to get to the public house before it closed?’

  They looked at one another and agreed by signs that that was meant to be a joke. It wasn’t a good one but it wasn’t a mean one either. Sir Edwin laughed at it himself. He was the only one who did, but it was quite jolly if rather silly laughter. They did not think it likely that he knew about Papa’s fondness for wine. In any case his own cheeks were as purple as Papa’s, probably from the same cause. He had piggy eyes and a fat face but he was cheerful and friendly. It could have been his lawyers who wrote the nasty letters about Poverty Castle.

  ‘Come and let me have a look at you,’ he cried.

  They went and stood in front of him.

  ‘So you’re the famous Misses Sempill?’

  ‘We’re not famous,’ said Effie, modestly. She meant, not yet. They were all going to be famous one day.

  He was greatly taken with Diana. Her sisters weren’t surprised or jealous. When she was upholding the honour of her family Diana could be formidable, like Granny Ruthven.

  ‘How is it that you’re the only one with dark hair?’

  Effie answered. ‘Granny had dark hair when she was young. It’s white now. She’s my mother’s mother. One of her ancestors was the first to strike David Rizzio, Mary Queen of Scots’ secretary, in Holyrood Palace hundreds of years ago. There’s a brass plate on the floor telling where it was done.’

  ‘Grandfather Ruthven was a surgeon in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary,’ said Jeanie.

  Rowena joined in this parade of her family’s credentials.

  ‘Grandfather Sempill was an architect.’

  ‘Like Papa,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘You’re a damned handsome lot of girls,’ said Sir Edwin. ‘Aren’t they, Molly?’

  They could hardly believe he was addressing Lady Campton. They hadn’t expected her to have such a common name as Molly. Somehow it made them like her a little more.

  She didn’t say yes or no, she just grunted.

  ‘Where are the dogs?’ asked Jeanie. ‘They were sent off in disgrace,’ said Sir Edwin.

  ‘They kept running after the ball and picking it up in their mouths. It got all slavery, you see.’

  They liked him for using such an unaristocratic word but were sorry that the dogs had been banished. Nigel approached impatiently. ‘I thought you had come to play cricket and not to chatter.’

  His mother who should have didn’t reprove him. So Rebecca did.

  ‘We are being polite,’ she said.

  ‘You’re putting it off because you can’t play,’ he sneered. ‘You’re afraid of the ball. It’s a real cricket ball. Show it to them, Edwin.’

  Edwin held it out.

  ‘Feel it,’ cried Nigel. ‘Go on, feel it.’

  ‘Don’t get so excited, Nigel,’ said his mother, fondly.

  ‘I would like to bang him on the head with it,’ whispered Effie.

  They all felt it, as part of their politeness.

  ‘Isn’t it hard?’ yelled Nigel.

  It was, alarmingly, but they would have died rather than say so.

  ‘Come on then,’ said Nigel. ‘We’ve wasted enough time. I’ll bat first.’ He waddled off to take up position in front of the stumps.

  ‘Please excuse us,’ said Diana.

  Lady Campton glanced up. She grudged showing admiration for the upstart’s daughter but could not help it.

  ‘A girl with style, wouldn’t you say?’ said Sir Edwin.

  ‘A bit too brazen for my taste,’ replied Lady Campton, but she was telling a lie. She would have been proud to have a daughter like Diana Sempill.

  On the cricket pitch Nigel had taken charge. Since there weren’t enough of them to pick sides, he said, they would play a game of one batsman against the rest. The one who scored most runs would be the winner. Edwin or himself would do all the bo
wling. Everybody knew girls couldn’t bowl. He implied that they couldn’t bat either or field or catch or run or throw. It was only right that he should bat first because he was the best batsman.

  This display of reckless bragging interested the girls. It showed that Nigel was just a child after all. He hadn’t learned yet that boasters had to prove themselves extremely good, otherwise they looked ridiculous. Someone, such as Edwin, should have knocked sense into him long ago. But Edwin, the softie, wouldn’t even hurt a fly if he could avoid it.

  ‘Who told you girls can’t bowl?’ said Effie, aggressively.

  Nigel sneered. ‘They can only bowl underhand.’

  ‘What’s underhand?’

  He demonstrated.

  ‘What’s wrong with that? Is it against the rules?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Edwin. ‘It’s not often done but it’s not against the rules.’

  ‘I suppose it’s all right for girls,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Diana’s a jolly good bowler,’ said Effie.

  Nigel laughed. It wasn’t an improvement on his sneering.

  ‘Let her bowl if she wants, Edwin.’

  Mumbling apologies, Edwin handed the ball to Diana. Briskly she placed her field. Effie kept wicket, wearing gloves much too big. Edwin fielded on the off-side, Jeanie on the on-side. Rowena and Rebecca were stationed where the ball was not likely to reach them.

  Diana bowled, overhand, slowly but straight. The ball trundled along the grass. Nigel rushed forward, swiped, and missed. The ball hit the stumps. A bail fell off.

  ‘Out!’ screamed Effie. ‘You’re out. Bowled.’

  ‘Well done, Diana,’ cried Edwin.

  Rowena and Rebecca clapped their hands.

  In a rage Nigel stamped the ground with his feet. ‘I’m not out,’ he yelled.

  The girls were fascinated. To show that you were a bad sportsman by sulking, say, was bad enough, though forgivable; to do it in this extravagant way was awful.

  ‘It was a no-ball,’ shrieked Nigel. ‘You can’t be out from a no-ball. Father, can you be out from a no-ball?’

  ‘God knows,’ said his father.