Unforgettable, Unforgotten

Anna Buchan

Description

Pen name O. Douglas. An interesting memoir of the author's family, especially her beloved brother John, the celebrated novelist and fifteenth Governor General of Canada, whom Anna visited in Canada. Illustrated with nicely chosen photographs.

Sujets

• Political
• Lettres et linguistique
• Biography
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 23 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774644898
• Langue: English

Extrait

First published in 1940.
This edition published by Rare Treasures.
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.








ANNA BUCHAN (O. DOUGLAS).























UNFORGETTABLE, UNFORGOTTEN


by
ANNA BUCHAN
(O. DOUGLAS)

































TO MY GENTLE READERS
You who read so faithfully my books may, perhaps, be interested in thisfamily chronicle.
It was written in an effort to lighten dark days by remembering happierones.
My brother John used to say that when he wrote stories he invented, butthat I in my books was always remembering.
Here in this chronicle is the fount of all my memories.
ANNA BUCHAN. (O. Douglas.)



{ 7}


{ 9}
CHAPTER I
FIFE
"... Do not think you can at all By knocking on the window call That child to hear you... For long ago, the truth to say, He has grown up and gone away, And it is but a child of air That lingers in the garden there." R. L. S.

It is a help in dark days to remember bright beginnings. Though,later, the clouds roll up, the sun is obscured and all colour drainedfrom the landscape, no one can take from us the memory of a perfectmorning. Oddly enough, what I remember most clearly looking backacross the years is the night-nursery in the old Manse in Fife: thatseems to have been the spiritual home of my childhood.
The day-nursery, with a snowball tree at the window, and a cupboardfull of toys (mostly broken), is only associated with material thingslike porridge and bread-and-butter, whereas the night-nursery had amagic casement. One of the two windows looked across the garden andthe field beyond and a jumble of roofs, to the grey water of the Firthof Forth and the Inchkeith Lighthouse. As the darkening fell, wechildren clustered round to watch the light come and go, convinced inour own minds that it was caused by a giant waving a lantern. My bedwas alongside the fireplace, and from it I could see the twinklinglight, and went to sleep every night thinking warmly of the patientgiant.
Willie and Walter and I shared the night-nursery. John, the eldest,had a small room to himself, a sort of prophet's { 10} chamber,containing only a bed, a chair, and a table. I did not envy him hislonely splendour. Being easily scared, I was only too thankful for thecompanionship of my two brothers; besides, if we woke early we had finegames, making an Indian tent in the boys' bed with our blankets andsheets. Once, having tied a sheet to the gas-bracket, and being toointent on our game to notice that the bracket had given way, and thatgas was escaping, we were much surprised to see the panic-stricken faceof Ellie Robbie (the nurse) as she rushed in and threw open the window,upbraiding us bitterly the while.
Opening out of the nursery was a small room with a fitted-in bath, anda window that gave a glimpse of the high road. It also contained thetallest soiled-linen basket that I have ever met. Willie once said,"If anyone comes to marry me, I'll hide in the dirty-clothes basket."
There is probably nothing a child values so much as a feeling ofsafety, and the night-nursery was the safest, friendliest room in thewhole house. To reach it, when we went to bed, meant braving a dimlylit staircase and a long landing peopled, we were certain, not only byfabulous monsters of every description, but by all the most frighteningbook-people. The last few yards were always a frenzied rush, with amoment of terror in case the door would not open, and then—EllieRobbie, moving quietly about in the firelight, our beds neatly madedown, with the nightgowns laid out. In winter we wore nightgowns ofred flannel, and when we heard of the Virtuous Woman in Proverbs whoclothed her household in scarlet, we felt we could picture themexactly, down to the white herring-boning on the belts and cuffs.
Ellie Robbie was such a kind and comfortable nurse (her real name wasEllen Robinson, and her father was believed by us to be the original ofthe saying, 'Before { 11} you can say Jack Robinson'), that bed-time wasno bugbear to us. In fact, the last half-hour of the day was somethingto look forward to, for Mother was nearly always with us, sitting onthe low 'nursing' chair, with the youngest on her lap, telling of whatshe did when she was little. Father often looked in too, and played usa tune, for, like R. L. S., he was a great performer on thepenny-whistle! Sometimes he sang to us old Scots songs of which he hadan inexhaustible store, or Negro songs about 'Way down South in theland of cotton,' or 'a coloured girl whose name was Nancy Till.' Butwhat we liked best were the odd old rhymes that he had been taught as achild:
"Cockybendy's lying sick, Guess ye what'll mend him? Twenty kisses in a clout. Lassie, will ye send them?"
and the long list of animals owned by one, Katie Bairdie, beginning:
"Katie Bairdie had a coo A' black about the mou'; Wasna that a denty coo? Dance, Katie Bairdie!"

There was one about a strange person called Aitken Drum. 'His breeksthey were made of the haggis bags,' we were told, and 'his buttons theywere made of bawbee baps,' and, strangest of all, 'he rade upon arazor.'
Being a passionate lover of his own countryside, Father never tiredrepeating to us the Border ballads; how 'Jamie Telfer of the fairDodhead' carried the fray to Branksome Ha', and how Johnny Armstrongwent out in all good faith to meet his King, only to find that deathwas to be his portion. He told us, too, of William Wallace, of FloddenField, and Mary Queen of Scots, until we burned with fury against 'theEnglish.'
{ 12}
Imagine, then, our horror and amazement when we were told that anEnglish cousin was coming to us for a night on her way North. An English cousin! We had not known that such a thing existed, and wefelt it shameful that we should harbour even for a night one of a racethat had treated our country so basely. In herself she seemedharmless, a pretty creature, just grown up, whom, had things beendifferent, we would have welcomed gladly, and to whom we would havebeen delighted to show our small treasures. But, as we stood andglowered, we were laying at this innocent's door all the ill-done deedsof her country—the head of William Wallace on a spike, the ring ofdead nobles round their King at Flodden, not to speak of the cruel,lonely death of the loveliest Queen in history.
Doubtless she had been warned about Scots manners, and expected little;anyway, she only smiled at us—she had a beguiling smile—and went onmaking conversation with our parents, and we retreated to a lair of ourown.
English Marjorie, we heard later, had not been favourably impressedwith our house. She thought it ghostly, and dreaded sleeping alone.
There were two guest-rooms in the Manse, and Marjorie was in what wecalled 'besbedroom.' It was a large room furnished in some sort ofgolden wood much admired by Father. The dressing-table had a row oftiny drawers on either side of the looking-glass, and at Christmas timethese were filled with small gifts for our stockings. It was quite anadventure before the great day came, to tiptoe in and keek at SantaClaus' store, and sniff that 'unforgettable, unforgotten' smell made upof lavender, beeswax-and-turpentine and chocolate frogs in silver paper.
There was also a large cupboard in 'besbedroom' which we were afraid toenter, John having told us a dreadful story about it. To cheerhomesick Marjorie on her way { 13} to bed, Mother had taken her with herto see that all was well in the night-nursery. There she had been soenvious of me curled in my bed by the side of the fire and companionedby brothers, that she begged to be allowed to take me to sleep withher, and, Mother consenting, I had been carried, still sound asleep, tothe large double bed.
The light was filtering in through the curtains when I woke, and atfirst I could not imagine where I was. The window was in the wrongplace, the boys' bed was not there. I peered over the sheet. Therewas the towering wardrobe, the dressing-table with the rows of littledrawers—I was sharing the bed of the English cousin.
An agonising loneliness came over me such as I have never againexperienced. Samson bound in Gaza with the Philistines around himcould not have felt more cut off from his own people than I did. Itwas not to be borne, so, very cautiously, I slipped from under thecovers on to the floor. Skirting the writing-table, I passed safelythe haunted cupboard and reached the door. The handle was difficult,and I glanced fearfully at the sleeper as I turned and twisted it; butat last it opened and I was free.
I did not dare go back to my own bed. The night-nursery was not safefrom the marauding English; I would go to John. The door of theprophet's chamber stood invitingly open, and like a frightened rabbit Iburrowed into his bed. Here was safety. In a minute I was asleep.
In the morning there were explanations. Mother