Just Jemima/Chapter 13

DINNA ken hoo I got through the dinner that night. Ma fingers was a' thumbs and ma head was in a bizz. I didna notice that cook had surpassed hersel' and I clean forgot what I had seen in the summer-hoose that forenoon. However, Mr. Shark didna mak' ony announcement, and it was weel for me he didna, for onything oot o' the usual then would ha'e sent me dean off ma onion. It would ha'e took vera little to ha'e made me drap the potatoes and dance on them.

Frederick wasna hissel' either. Him and me had a collision, and the roly-poly was near a waster. Fortunately it was sticky as weel as tender, and, like the man in the railway accident, kept its seat though severely shook. But it was a narrow escape for Mrs. Pabbity frae gettin' the pink sauce on her back hair. The fact is, folk in boardin' hooses, even o' the best quality, never ken the risks they run.

It was a mercy I had naething in ma hand when the next shock cam'. The Captain and the Colonel and Mrs. Beetle was the last to rise, and on their way to the door the Colonel suddenly turned to Frederick at the sideboard and, without sayin' a word, shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder, and then stottered oot afore Frederick was half through his salute.

"Much ado aboot naething, Jemima!" says Frederick, wi' a sort o' laugh, but red in the face.

I didna reply, bein' unable owin' to another silly lump in ma throat and a shoogliness aboot ma knees.

He started to clear awa', and I done the same. The conversation was few, and he performed the maist o' it. It was chiefly aboot the holiday folk he had seen in the town. A question was tormentin' me, but I wouldna ha'e asked it to save ma neck. If he didna like to tell me, I would carry ma curiosity to the grave; for I'll confess I was curious this time.

Later on, in the kitchen, it was cook that tried to keep up the chat, but she has nae gift o' the gab, so it was a quiet supper, though an extra guid one. Frederick praised it, and so did I, but we could hardly finish what cook put on oor plates, and I could see that she was sair disappinted; in fac', there was tears in her eyes.

"I made a special wee roly for ye," she says, when I was gi'ein' inward thanks that the feast was ended; "but maybe ye'll no' be heedin' aboot it noo."

"No' heedin' aboot it?" says Frederick, wi' a quick look at me. "Just gi'e us the chance, cook! If it's half as guid as the big one looked, I wouldna trust masel' long in its company. What dae you say, Jemima?"

"Ay," I answers, checkin' back a groan; "the boarders was fair greedy for your roly, cook. If I had drapped it on the floor, there would ha'e been a rare scramble for it, I can assure ye."

"Weel, weel," she says, cheerin' up, "I wouldna wonder if the wee one's nicer nor the big one."

When she set it on the table, I see Frederick's face fa', and I felt like sinkin' to the lino. Wee? It was a thumper!

"Noo," says cook, "ye'll ha'e to divide it betwixt ye, for roly doesna agree wi' me."

As I've said afore, I canna bear to hurt onybody's feelin's, and Frederick's pretty much the same. We shifted that roly—maybe Heaven helped us; but when I'm on auld wife (if I'm spared) I'll still remember it, and tell its history to ma children's children, even to the fourth generation (if ony). And I'll say this for the roly: the struggle to win ootside ma share took ma mind frae its trouble for the time bein'.

At last Frederick got up and gi'ed cook a poke o' peppermints he had bought in the town; and peppermints is aboot as scarce as peacocks' eggs nooadays. Cook near grat on his neck. They was like manna in the wilderness, she declared.

"Jemima," he says, "I've had a day off, so it's up to me to dae the dishes. Sit still and rest ye."

"Thank ye," says I, "but I prefer to dae ma bit."

"I'll dae the lot," says cook, "and you young folks can tak' it easy for a change. That roly o' mines doesna digest in five minutes"—which was exceedin'ly true.

Of course, we didna listen to her, and after some argie-bargie we started on the job as usual.

It was Frederick which spoke first.

"Ma mither would like ye to gang to your supper on Sunday," he says. "I'll maybe no' be there masel', but there's a lady comin' to see ma mither—a Red Cross Nurse that has been in France and Italy, and ma mither thinks ye would like to hear her stories."

"I'm obliged to your mither," says I, and then without thinkin'—"I thought your mither didna care to hear aboot the war."

"I daresay the nurse'll be discreet in what she tells," he says. "But ma mither's like her auld sel' noo; the doctor says her nerves is strong again. I wouldna wonder if your wee visits ha'e helped her a heap, Jemima, so I hope ye'll gang on Sunday."

I was wonderin' what I could answer when there cam' a knock on the door.

"Maybe you'd better open," says he.

I gaed wi' a forebodin' in ma heart, and I wasna surprised to see the porter on the step.

After a little politeness he asked what way I hadna answered his last letter, which I had received but the day afore. He was inclined to be on his high horse, and I wasna sorry, for it's mair difficult to deal wi' a chap when he doesna show the spirit o' a jeely-fish.

"Paper's dear," says I, "and a stamp costs three bawbees, and I ha'e ma parents to write to twice a week and ma brithers once; and forbye a' that, I'm no' keen on correspondence wi' specimens o' the opposite sect."

"Yon last letter ye wrote to me was attrocious cruel," he says.

"I didna mean it that way," I tells him. "But I would sooner ye didna write ony mair to me. The postman's beginnin' to smile, and I draw the line at a scandal."

"Weel, what aboot Sunday?" says he. "We can talk it ower then Jemima."

I shook ma head.

After a bit he says:—

"Ha'e ye asked the boots aboot his Red Cross friend?" It wasna the words, but the way he said them.

I seen it was time to mak' an end.

"What aboot Sunday?" he says again.

I answered gently but firmly:—

"Naething daein', Peter."

"D'ye mean that?" he says. "And the Sunday after?"

"Ditto," says I. "Noo I'm unco busy, so I'll bid ye guidnicht."

I held oot ma hand.

"Ye're a flirt!" says he, and walked off.

If he had waited, I think I would ha'e struck him. Me a flirt? The very idea was proposterous! The tears cam' to ma eyes, but I bashed them awa', like the girl in the story.

"Ye silly kid!" I says to masel', "dae ye want Frederick to see ye've been greetin'?"

Wi' a stiff upper lip I returned to ma duty.

"Ha'e ye done naething since I gaed to the door?" I asks.

"I removed to the kitchen," answers Frederick. "I could ha'e heard your chat in here."

It was maist provokin', for I'll confess I would ha'e had sma' objection to Frederick hearin' every word—except the last.

"It was merely Mr. Taggart, the porter," says I, wi' ma nose up.

"So I supposed," says he.

"It might ha'e been another chap," says I.

"True," he says, "and I beg your pardon, Miss Just. There's nae reason why ye should stick to one—or two—admirers."

Ma cheeks was burnin'.

"Dae ye think I'm a flirt?" I cries like a silly goat.

"What dae ye think yoursel'?" he says, in that quiet voice o' his. "But if ye are, Jemima, I'm sure ye canna help it. Only I wish ye would be open wi' me. If ye're set on walkin' oot wi' the porter, tell me and be done wi' it. I'll no' seek to interfere. I believe he's a decent enough chap"

"Stop it!" I says. "Ha'e you been open wi' me?"

"Open wi' you?" he says, starin' at me.

I managed to get a grip o' masel'.

"When I cam' here at first," I says cauldly—at least luke-warmly—"ye wanted to be ma frien'; and I'll no' deny ye was kind as ony frien' could be. But whilst I tellt ye nearly everything aboot masel', you kept your secrets. That's a'!"

"I think I see what ye mean," he says, speakin' slow.

"I hope ye dae," says I. "But, of course, I dinna want to hear onything noo."

"Come, Jemima," says he. "Ye surely ken I wanted to tell ye a while back, and ye wouldna listen. It was the night ye was badly, and the porter cam' to the door"

"If ye had wanted, ye could ha'e told me long afore that, that ye had been a sojer," I says.

"It wasna maybe so easy for me as ye imagine," he says. "Jemima, will ye listen noo?"

"If ye trifle like this," says I, "we'll never get through wi' the dishes."

"Speak o' the dishes again, and I'll smash every one o' them!" he says, and I believe he would ha'e done it. "Listen, Jemima. It'll no' tak' three minutes."

Maybe it didna tak' so long. As ma fayther says, truth mak's a short tale.

"I was three years in Flanders," he says, "and then I was sent hame wi' heart trouble. When I was through wi' the hospitals, I got ma discharge and cam' hame to find ma mither in bad health wi' her nerves. I think she would ha'e been dead but for Mrs. Parkins's kindness. Ye see, there's but the twa O' us, mither and me. Weel, she was terrified I would be called up again, and the doctor said I would ha'e to dae everything to keep her mind off the War. That's why, Jemima, ye never heard us speak aboot it; that's why I never wore ma badge. And I had to get others, like Mrs. Parkins, to be secret, in case, by some wee wicked chance, a stranger would hear aboot me and then meet ma mither. Then I didna dare to gang far awa' frae ma mither, and I offered ma help to Mrs. Parkins, wha needed help badly, in gratitude for her kindness. Then ma mither's nerves and ma own stupid he'rt got better, and I foreseen that the time was comin' when I would ha'e to leave her again. I began to feel I could depend on ye to be kind to ma mither, and so I made up ma mind to tell ye everything—only ye wouldna listen. I was at several doctors the day, and I'm fit, as ye see. But I'll no' be needed noo. As for Captain Smith, in case ye're wonderin' where he comes in, I had the luck to dae him a guid turn oot there, and he's made the maist o' it. And so ma story's ended, and I hope"

"Oh, I'm glad the war's finished. Alec!" I cries, forgettin' everything but his story. The plate I was holdin' slipped into the sink and broke, but I never heeded.

"I'll no' say I'm sorry, either," he says, wi' a wee smile. "Did ye mean to call me 'Alec' the noo? "

"It slipped oot, Frederick," says I.

He took a step nearer and catched me by the shoulders.

"Jemima," he says, and I hardly kent his voice, "dinna play wi' me. Whiles ye mak' me think one thing, whiles another. But whatever happens, I'll aye declare ye're the dearest, bonniest wee"

"Oh, whisht!" says I. "Cook'll hear ye."

"She's hard o' hearin', bless her!" he says. "Jemima!"

"What?" says I.

"If ye wasna so awfu' young" He stopped for a moment. "Oh, ay, ye're far ower young to be sure—sure o' your heart," he says. "Are ye no'?"

I couldna face him then, but I felt his kind black eyes on me, and I was feart, yet no' terrified.

"Jemima," he says, after a while, "dae ye think ye're ower young? Answer, dear."

It's a wonder he heard me, for ma voice was nae bigger nor a moose's whisper:—

"Ma fayther says I'm aulder nor ma years, Alec."