The Malady in Maderia Read online

  “She seems a nice person” Nannie said.

  “Yes—but not exactly a martinet!” Julia said, causing a discreet giggle from Philip’s nurse. “Well, ’begin as you mean to go on!’ as they say. I’m sure you’ll be able to handle them, in your own quarters, anyhow. Tell me if you have any bother.”

  “Oh, most children soon get to know where they are” Nannie Mack replied oracularly.

  Having done what she could to organise the well-being of her own little party, Julia went downstairs, wondering on the way why someone as sensible and efficient as Pauline Shergold should let her children run riot to such an extent. She soon learned. Her hostess was sitting on the verandah before a tea-tray on which a silver kettle was simmering over a spirit-lamp.

  “Mrs. H. will be down in a minute or two” she said. “I won’t make the tea till she comes, if you aren’t dying of thirst; she likes it absolutely fresh-made. Have you seen the creatures? I heard them come in.”

  “Yes, we met on the stairs. I took them along to meet Nannie Mack and the Philipino; he is taller than Susan, but only by a hairsbreadth.”

  “Were they frightfully rampageous?”

  “Well yes, a bit” Julia said.

  “I expect you’re wondering why on earth I let them be so rowdy” Mrs. Shergold said, lifting the lid of the kettle and peering in; she turned the spirit-lamp a little higher.

  “Well yes, a bit” Julia repeated, with her usual frankness.

  “It’s to save trouble,” Pauline Shergold said flatly. “No Portuguese nurses can bring themselves to keep children in order— keep them clean, yes, but obedient and mannerly, no. That’s why people like the Ericeiras always have English nannies. But you can’t keep one here, it’s too isolated; I did try, twice, but they were miserable, and that’s no good, for them or for the children.”

  “No, of course not” Julia said, much interested.

  “The only way to make them behave according to our standards would be for me to do it myself, and that’s simply not on” Pauline said calmly. “There are too many other things to do.”

  “Such as? Do tell me; you see, I suppose at some point I shall have to take a bit of a hand with the Philipino myself.”

  “Well, the garden, for one thing; Antonio is only a labourer, really, and Gerald does love it, so that’s not absolutely pure selfishness—though a good bit, I expect! And I’m trying to put in a bit of work on the botany here, which is frightfully interesting and peculiar.”

  “Oh, is it? Peculiar in what way?”

  “Because of Madeira being a volcanic island risen out of the ocean, never part of any mainland; so that all its native vegetation can only have been sea-borne, or air-borne by birds. There’s a current called the Canaries Current that’s supposed to have brought most things.”

  “Fascinating! Like having no archaeology” Julia exclaimed.

  “Exactly. Well, of course most of it has been worked over, but there are a few puzzles still to be cleared up—and that seems to me more worth while than pestering the children, and tormenting myself, to drill them into what are, after all, rather arbitrary standards of behaviour. If you ask me, I think a lot of what we call ’manners’ in the young were invented by bored Victorian nannies for their own convenience!” Pauline pronounced flatly. “ ’Be seen and not heard’ isn’t normal for young animals. Of course there are certain things which are quite basic: if I ever catch them being untruthful, or unkind, they’re for it. But as a matter of fact I practically never do. Of course I realise they may be a bit of a nuisance to other people—if they play you up at all, just slap them.”

  “I did slap the twins” Julia said.

  “Did you?—oh, good! Tell Nannie Mack to beat hell out of them if they’re any bother to her. But I shouldn’t think they will be—they’ll know better! Hullo, here’s Mrs. H.”

  3

  Julia Was Relieved to find Mrs. Hathaway in good order. She had been very much disturbed to hear in Portugal of this latest attack of congestion of the lungs, especially since it had come on in the summer; now, seeing her old friend happy and content in Madeira, and tenderly cared for by Madame Bonnecourt, her anxiety was largely removed.

  “Dearest Mrs. H., I hope you mean to stay right on through the winter” she said when they were alone.

  “Well, dear child, that is what kind Pauline insists on” the old lady said—“and really I think perhaps I shall. You see she has given me my own sitting-room, so I need not be on top of them all the time; and at last I have managed to persuade her to let me make a little contribution to the house-keeping. I said I would visit for a month, and after that we would either be p.g.’s, or go to an hotel! So she gave in.”

  “The children don’t disturb you?” Julia asked.

  “Oh no—they’re out so much of the time. Pauline has this theory about letting them holler” Mrs. Hathaway went on, using an antique expression which delighted Julia, “but of course they will have to drop all that when they go to school. They’re lovely children, really—only it is such a shame that the boys should have their mother’s glorious hair and poor little Susan just be that colourless pale blonde, like Gerald. It doesn’t matter for a man, of course; but the boys don’t need that wonderful brun châtain—it’s no use to them.”

  Julia laughed, and asked after Aglaia. “Such misery, her losing the baby. Is she fretting very much?”

  “Yes, I’m sure she is, but she is very brave, and puts a good face on things. She’s a sweet child” Mrs. Hathaway observed thoughtfully. “I wish I knew why she’s so worried about Colin.”

  “Why on earth should she be worried about him? This is just a routine job, in Spain; he’s done it before.” Julia’s face clouded as she looked out over Mrs. Shergold’s brilliant rosebeds, thinking of the so unroutine job—she still did not know its exact nature—from which her own husband had not returned.

  “I don’t know at all. But she is worried; all the brightness goes out of her little face when his name is mentioned. I thought you might have heard something—you know all those people so well.”

  “No, not a thing” Julia said. “I’ve been in Portugal for two months, of course. Colin just wrote that he was going back to his old job in Spain for a bit, and there’s nothing to that—it’s what he was doing when I was out at Larège, and the baby came in such a hurry.”

  “Well, do try and find out when she comes” Mrs. Hathaway said.

  “Is she coming?”

  “Yes, Terence and Penelope are bringing her up this weekend.”

  “Oh good. Well, I’ll certainly try, Mrs. H.”

  Julia wondered a little, later, as to why Aglaia should be worrying over Colin. In fact she had rather avoided his and Philip Jamieson’s colleagues in London, after the shattering news of her husband’s death; when officially summoned she had paid one brief call on Major Hartley, and been given Philip’s wallet and wrist-watch and, almost worst of all, some unopened letters of her own which had only reached the expedition when he was already dead. Stiffly and numbly, she had received the official condolences—it still seemed so impossible that Philip could be dead—and had asked a few questions; but very few. She had been connected with Intelligence so long that not to ask questions had become almost second nature, and, told that the death had been instantaneous, that his body had been taken to India and buried in the cemetery at New Delhi, she had left it at that. Colin she had only seen once or twice; understandably he was fearfully distressed, and of him, too, she had asked very little, except to arrange for a tombstone in that unknown, far-away cemetery—she had remembered, with searing pain, how Philip had wished, in the Scillies, to have a tombstone put up to the Russian sailor murdered by his colleagues, after he had himself tried to murder Mrs. Hathaway’s silly, much-loved, old Professor Burbage. Partly, she had not wished to add to Colin’s unhappiness; she realised that the mere sight of her must cause him distress just then. But nothing, in any of these interviews, had given her the least impression that there was
anything in the present circumstances of her cousin to call for worry.

  At the time, however, any speculations were interrupted by the arrival of her host; they heard the sound of a car in the drive on the far side of the house, and a moment later Gerald Shergold came through onto the verandah. He was a short, stout, cheerful man, with a round merry face, and just the same pale frizzy hair as Susan’s cropped close to his head, giving an effect of irrepressible marcel waves—in fact there was altogether something irrepressible about him. He greeted his newly arrived guest with— “Well, at last you’re here, Julia! I do call you Julia, don’t I? I don’t believe I’ve seen you since our wedding-day.”

  “Oh yes you have, Gerald—you and Pauline came to drinks at Mrs. H.’s flat once, when you were over.”

  “And how long ago was that, may I ask? How many children had we got then?”

  “None—Pauline was expecting the twins, I think.”

  “There you are—over seven years ago! Well, we’ll forgive you for abandoning us now you have come. No drinks yet? It’s quite time—I’ll get some.” He went into the house, where he could be heard bellowing for “As bebidas.”

  “The children get it from their father” Mrs. Hathaway remarked, with quizzical tolerance. “But he’s a dear, really.”

  Next day Pauline Shergold suggested taking Julia for a walk; but first she spent some time giving Antonio minute instructions about digging and dunging a bed for vegetables beyond the flower-garden. “He must finish it today” she said as they set off, “so that we can plant out the cabbages. We get water tomorrow.”

  “What on earth do you mean? Don’t you always have water?”

  “Goodness no, not for the garden—only two or three days a week, so one has to arrange to do all planting on water days.” As they walked down the drive she pointed to a small open channel which emerged from a narrow conduit under the road; it was damp but empty. “That’s where our water comes in” she said; “each house has one.”

  “But where does it come from?” Julia asked, much intrigued.

  “From the main levada, up the hill; we’re going there now— the levada paths are much the easiest walking.”

  So Julia had her first introduction to that odd and ingenious system of water-supply, peculiar to Madeira and parts of the Canaries. As they struck up the open slopes their path crossed several of the small channels and presently, ahead of them, across the dull greyish green of the hillside they could see, winding like a ribbon, a line of blue and white, following the contours of the mountain—as they approached it Julia saw that this ribbon was formed by the masses of hydrangeas and agapanthus planted beside the broad, well-kept path which ran alongside the levada itself. This was an open channel some three feet wide and about as deep, through which a deep stream of clear water poured with a rapid, steady flow; a few yards along it Pauline Shergold showed her guest a neatly made wooden sluice, connecting with a lesser channel on the further side of the path—“That’s where the men let out the water for all our district” she said.

  “But why isn’t it sent down through pipes?” Julia asked.

  “Why should it be? Pipes would be fearfully expensive.”

  “But don’t the sides of these open runnels fall in, and block them?”

  “Not unless some person, or animal, uses a great deal of force. Feel.” She knelt down and held Julia’s hand against the wall of the main channel.

  “But it’s as hard as rock!” Julia exclaimed.

  “Exactly. That’s the thing about tuff—it practically turns to rock when it’s exposed to the air. But before that it’s almost as easy to cut as cheese; that’s why all these channels are made so neatly and precisely. Tuff is God’s great gift to Madeira.”

  “What is tuff? I never heard of it.”

  “Some form of volcanic residue—ash mostly, I believe. But it has these invaluable properties; easy to cut, completely durable when cut, and cheap.”

  “Wonderful” said Julia. As they strolled along, she asked where the water, rustling gently beside them, came from. “There’s such masses of it—how many gallons per second, do you suppose?”

  “This levada has about fifteen—some have as much as eighteen.” Mrs. Shergold went on to explain that the north side of the mountain range which forms the backbone of the island traps the moist airs from the Atlantic and condenses them into innumerable streams and springs; these are caught and led into the levadas, which bring the water round the slopes to irrigate the dry, southern side. “It’s been brilliantly done—a marvellous piece of engineering, really. But the supply isn’t unlimited— that’s why we only get water so many days a week.”

  Julia was charmed by this simple way of distributing water. “Only I should have thought it might get polluted, in the open like this—animals and all that.”

  “Hardly any animals on Madeira graze loose; they’re generally either led or tethered to a spike driven into the ground, if they aren’t kept in stalls. Except the sheep up on the Paul da Serra” she added—“they do graze in the open, but then there are no levadas up there; it’s above them.”

  “What is the Paúl da Serra?” Julia wanted to know.

  “Oh, it’s a fascinating place—a high, high plateau down in the South. They say it was once the crater of a volcano, but if so most of the walls have crumbled away; now it’s just a bare open space with nothing on it but sheep and bracken, with the most marvellous views. It’s fearfully hard to get up, too, the sides are so steep—that’s why the sheep don’t stray. You’ll see it one day —we’re sure to be going down to the Armitages, and their house is a good jumping-off place for it.”

  Julia was still slightly preoccupied with the well-being and contentment of Nannie Mackenzie and small Philip, and the following day, when her hostess was intent on supervising the planting-out of the cabbages, and watering the garden from the now freely flowing channels which criss-crossed it in all directions, she joined the nursery party, who were going bilberrying. Small Philip was strapped into a light folding push-cart, which Julia had prudently taken with her to Portugal for use on Nannie’s walks at Gralheira; Marta exclaimed at its handiness— “Tão bom!” she said. Marcus and Henry begged to be allowed to push it.

  “One at a time” Nannie said firmly—“You first, Henry, and only walk, mind; if you start to run he’ll have to come with me. Give me your tin.”

  “Why?” Henry asked—but he surrendered the metal pannikin which, like all the others, he was carrying.

  “Think!” was all the reply Nurse Mackenzie vouchsafed.

  “To have his hands free?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes—and not to make a clatter” the Scotswoman said, taking the pannikin along with her own.

  The little party proceeded some considerable distance up the slopes beyond the road, on small narrowish paths; Marcus was allowed to take his turn at propelling the push-cart, but Nannie refused to let Theodore try—“Not on these rough little paths; you can in the garden.” Presently they turned off to the right, along a more level path, till among a group of tall bushes Marta called a halt.

  Picking bilberries in Madeira is as peculiar and unexpected as so many other things on that singular island. When the Portuguese woman said “Here we peeck” both Julia and Nannie Mack, for a moment, looked around them, puzzled. Instead of a low, dense green growth, covering the ground and bearing the small bluish fruit, here was only bristly grass and pale shards of rock on the dusty soil; then as the children, pannikins in hand, sprang off the path and set to work, they saw that the bilberries in fact grew on the bushes, which were six feet or more high. “Goodness, how convenient!” Julia exclaimed—“No stooping!” Small Philip was released from his chair, and given a tiny pannikin by Marta, and he and Susan began picking together; Julia noticed with pleasure that the twins adjured Theodore to leave the lowest berries for the two little ones to pick—perhaps there was something in Mrs. Shergold’s unusual ideas of discipline, she thought. She watched them all for a little w
hile, and then began to pick herself; the berries were large and juicy, and tasted much like the home variety—why, she wondered, should the plants that bore them have developed to such a size? Perhaps Pauline knew.

  She wandered on, picking here and there, but mostly enjoying the sun, the mild air, and the occasional glimpses, on the slopes close above, of the blue and white line which showed where the levada path ran across the hillside. Soon she was out of sight of the nursery pickers, and presently out of earshot too; rounding a corner, happy and careless, suddenly she came to a dead stop. Lumbering leisurely down the path towards her came an enormous boar covered with dark spiky hair; immense tusks projected from either side of its mouth. Julia had never seen a wild boar, but this was so totally unlike any domestic pig that it could hardly be anthing else. She was rather frightened—would it be savage? Somehow she must prevent it from getting near the children; she must warn them—but if she turned and ran, would it run after her? Rather halfheartedly she clapped her hands, thinking as she did so what an idiotic way of trying to scare a wild animal that was. However, the boar peered at her out of its tiny eyes, half-buried in hair, and then obligingly turned downhill off the path; as it went it stepped on an ants’ nest, and paused to root in this with its snout and lick up the swarming ants and grubs—Julia left it thus peacefully occupied, and hurried back to the others. She took Marta aside and tried to tell her what she had seen—she didn’t want to frighten Nannie Mack, nor to arouse the curiosity of the twins; but the words “a wild boar” seemed outside the range of Marta’s English. What was the Portuguese for wild boar? “Porco” she said hopefully, “muito grande”—and with a burst of inspiration— “real!” She knew that since the middle ages, when all game belonged to the Crown, wild duck, at least, were called pato real.

  Luckily this form of penny dropped. Marta took the tidings very sensibly, and asked how far away the creature was?—but she agreed that they might as well start for home; the pannikins were three-parts full already.