Free Poverty Castle by John Robin Jenkins Page A

cheerful and friendly. It could have been his lawyers who wrote the nasty letters about Poverty Castle.
    â€˜Come and let me have a look at you,’ he cried.
    They went and stood in front of him.
    â€˜So you’re the famous Misses Sempill?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Grandfather Ruthven was a surgeon in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary,’ said Jeanie.
    Rowena joined in this parade of her family’s credentials.
    â€˜Grandfather Sempill was an architect.’
    â€˜Like Papa,’ said Rebecca.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Where are the dogs?’ asked Jeanie. ‘They were sent off in disgrace,’ said Sir Edwin.
    â€˜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 butwere 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.
    â€˜We are being polite,’ she said.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Feel it,’ cried Nigel. ‘Go on, feel it.’
    â€˜Don’t get so excited, Nigel,’ said his mother, fondly.
    â€˜I would like to bang him on the head with it,’ whispered Effie.
    They all felt it, as part of their politeness.
    â€˜Isn’t it hard?’ yelled Nigel.
    It was, alarmingly, but they would have died rather than say so.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Please excuse us,’ said Diana.
    Lady Campton glanced up. She grudged showing admiration for the upstart’s daughter but could not help it.
    â€˜A girl with style, wouldn’t you say?’ said Sir Edwin.
    â€˜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 bowling. 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. Itshowed 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