A Kind of Magic. Betty NeelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
but I meet them from time to time while I’m shopping.’
She had gone a pretty pink, and Rosie said, ‘Is he nice, Aunt Carrie?’
The pink deepened. ‘A retired solicitor, dear, but of course I have your granny to look after.’
‘Stuff!’ retorted Rosie fiercely. ‘There is Elspeth, and Granny can afford a companion. Does she know?’
‘No. And there’s not much point… I mean, we’re just friends.’
‘Well, make the most of him.’ They stood listening to her grandmother’s voice giving brisk orders. ‘It’s time we went—we have to be on the platform before nine o’clock.’
They were met at the station by two pleasant young men, who whisked away their luggage and took them to one of the lounges to wait for the train. The room was full, and a score of faces turned to them as they were introduced, before Mrs Macdonald was seated with suitable care in a chair, and offered coffee. Rosie sat down not too near her, and over coffee exchanged names with those around her. Americans mostly, a sprinkling of Germans, and a haughty-looking woman with a meek husband who had flown up from London. All very VIP, thought Rosie, making suitable replies to friendly questions. She had been right; there was no one there under fifty. They were all prosperous-looking couples, well dressed and pleased with themselves. Within five minutes they had asked her name, and from then on she was ‘Rosie’, despite the look of affront upon her grandmother’s face.
They boarded the train in style, with a piper to lead them, and once there, sitting convivially in the observation car, they were offered champagne. Rosie, careful not to look at Mrs Macdonald, enjoyed hers. Later, after the train had got under way, Rosie led her grandmother to their cabins. The old lady had taken a long time deciding whether Rosie should share a cabin with her or whether they should be apart. Rosie was glad now that she had made up her mind to be on her own; doubtless it would mean that she would have to nip to and fro a good deal, but it would be worth it. She sat her grandmother down in the beautifully appointed cabin, and unpacked for her, and rang the bell for the stewardess so that orders might be given concerning morning tea, a tin of biscuits in case of hunger during the night and a warm drink before retiring. The stewardess had a soft Highland voice and a gentle face. Everything would be done just as Mrs Macdonald wished, she promised.
‘You can unpack later,’ said Mrs Macdonald. ‘I will go back to the observation car, but you must go with me—I find the corridors difficult. I must see someone about our table…’
‘I heard someone say that we sit where we like,’ remarked Rosie. ‘Rather nice, for we can get to know everyone.’
Her grandmother gave her a steely look. ‘I shall ask for a table for two to be reserved for us. And now come along, Rosie, we have wasted enough time sitting here idly.’
Rosie, who hadn’t sat down once, said nothing, merely led the way back to the observation car where a good many of the passengers had forgathered. She sat the old lady down in a small armchair so placed that if she didn’t wish to talk to anyone there would be no need, accepted the sherry they were offered, and sat down to drink it. It was good sherry but she didn’t waste time drinking it. With a muttered excuse she skipped away back to her cabin, where she unpacked and tidied everything away, did her face and hair and, armed with the itinerary, went back, just in time to join her grandmother for lunch.
The old lady had had her way, of course; they were to sit at a table for two for the entire journey. Rosie, listening to her grandmother’s annoyed remarks concerning the lack of companionship which it was evident she would be called upon to endure, wished she could have joined in the cheerful talk at the larger tables. She spoke soothingly, promised constant attendance in the future and, being a sensible girl, enjoyed the excellent meal while making suitable conversation.
‘I shall rest,’ declared Mrs Macdonald as they finished their coffee. ‘There is a visit this afternoon, I believe. We stop at Spean Bridge in order to drive there, but I shall not go—I know the house and I should have enjoyed meeting old friends again, but I have to think of my health. You will stay with me, Rosie—I like to be read to while I rest.’
Rosie swallowed disappointment, and said, ‘Yes, Granny,’ in a voice carefully devoid of expression. The train had turned north at Craigendoran Junction, the country was dramatically beautiful, with mountains still snow-capped ringing the horizon, and soon they would be crossing Rannoch Moor. Years ago she had walked part of its lonely road with her father, and she wanted to see it all again.
‘You don’t wish to see the moor? We are almost at Bridge of Orchy—’ She glanced out of the window. ‘There are several people on the walkway…’
‘My health is more important than sentimental remembrances at the moment. Tomorrow I shall have recovered sufficiently to look around me.’
So they made their way back to Mrs Macdonald’s cabin, where Rosie finally settled her on her bed and obediently opened the book she was to read. It was a dull book, full of long words, and she read badly because she was listening to the cheerful departure of everyone else. She ventured a peep out of the window, and saw them climbing aboard the special coach which was to carry them to the various places to be visited. There was a lot of laughing and chatter, and she longed to be there too. She reminded herself sternly that she had come to look after Granny, and went back to the book.
Ten minutes after the coach had left Mrs Macdonald went to sleep, and presently Rosie closed the book, opened the cabin door quietly, and went to stand in the corridor to take stock of her surroundings. The train would leave for Fort William soon, and wait there for the coach, and after making sure that her grandmother was sleeping soundly she went to the observation car and through its doors to the platform beyond. It was a fresh day, threatening rain, and she stayed there until the train started on its way to Fort William where it would pick up its passengers. But before that she was summoned back to her grandmother’s cabin, to find that lady wishing to be tidied after her nap and to take tea.
They had just finished when the rest of the party got on to the train again, full of their pleasant afternoon. They gathered round Mrs Macdonald and Rosie, not noting the former’s icy lack of interest, but Rosie listened happily, glad to talk to them, and rather taken aback when a cheerful matron from Chicago remarked that it was a shame that her granny was sick, and wouldn’t they like to sit with them at dinner?
Rosie listened to her grandmother explaining in well-modulated tones that conversation gave her a headache, and it was essential that she should take her meals without distraction. The Americans were nice; they offered sympathy with a friendliness which Rosie would have liked to have reciprocated.
So they dined presently, she and her grandmother, sitting in a near silence, Mrs Macdonald in black crêpe and pearls, and Rosie in silk jersey, the old lady apparently oblivious of the convivial atmosphere around them. Rosie was quite glad when the old lady said that she would go to bed shortly after dinner. Of course, an hour passed before she was in her bed, and another half-hour before Rosie was told that she might go to her own cabin.
‘A pleasant day,’ commented Mrs Macdonald. ‘I hope you’ll make sure that I am called with China tea at half-past seven, Rosie?’
Rosie simply said, ‘Yes, Granny’ to both remarks, and sped back to the observation car to spend the next hour or so exchanging light-hearted views and opinions with everyone there.
The next day the train took them to Mallaig, and although Mrs Macdonald refused to get out of the train Rosie was dispatched into the village to get postcards and stamps—an excuse to walk briskly down to the harbour and watch the ferry from Skye come in, where she was swept into a friendly group of passengers. The pleasant little interlude cheered her before going back to her grandmother, to sit with her, watching the familiar countryside and listening to the old lady’s reminiscences. They were going back over Rannoch Moor again to stay for the night at Bridge of Orchy, and the scene was familiar. Rosie’s old home wasn’t far away—a nice old house tucked away at the foot of the mountains behind Oban. She longed to see it again, but her grandmother, who had never approved of her father allowing it to pass into