The Girl Under the Olive Tree Read online

  Out in the mountain air Penny could forget all the daily restrictions of her life: the schoolroom, the dancing lessons, the interminable dressmaker’s appointments. Here she was free to stretch her limbs, to breathe in the tang of the heather and forget that she was a girl. Even so, she was a crack shot, better than her brother, Zan.

  Now she should be heading back; today was just a trial run. Most of the shooting party were out doing a Macnab, a challenge to catch a salmon, and shoot a brace of grouse and a stag all in one day, not that she was allowed to take part. It was the night of the Highland Ball and the women were busy dressing, preparing for the dancing and for showing her sister, Evadne, off to her prospective relatives, the Jeffersons.

  It was Evadne’s second season as a debutante and their mother, Lady Fabia, had stalked the ballrooms of Belgravia, sniffing out suitable quarry for her elder daughter in vain. The court was still in mourning for King George the Fifth, who’d died earlier in the year. Evadne had insisted on wearing black for the dance her parents gave for her. It was daring and sophisticated, and she’d bagged her own prize in the shape of Walter Jefferson, a young diplomat in the Foreign Office, well connected but with no title, much to her mother’s disappointment. Their engagement was to be announced tonight.

  At least no one was bothering Penny, leaving her free to roam around the magnificent house, with its staircase full of portraits of the noble Murray family down the generations. She’d found the library, its walls lined with leather-bound learning, books that were well thumbed and read, not like the showy tomes that passed for literature in Papa’s study at Stokencourt. Why did they all think reading was such a waste of time, she mused. Papa read the Financial Times, Mother glanced through The Lady, looking for domestic servants, Evadne didn’t read at all. She was always out riding with her friends and Penny was too young to enjoy all their girly chitchat. She sometimes wished, though, that she was more like her big sister in looks and temperament. Perhaps then Mother wouldn’t be so hard on her for having her head stuck in a book.

  Penny returned down to the big house, skiving off to the library where the magnificent busts of Milton and Shakespeare peered down at her. Her own scanty education had been imparted by poor Miss Francis, who had tutored her privately for a while, but now Penny was sixteen and a half and not expected to bother with anything other than flower arranging, drawing and ballroom dancing lessons. She longed to go to college, all because of a secret passion that none of her family would ever understand.

  It started when Albert Gregg, the old gardener, gave her a knapped flint he’d found in the garden when she was seven. He’d pointed out how the flint had been worked in ancient times, an arrowhead for hunting. To be touching something thousands of years old thrilled her, sending her digging up the borders to find more treasures. Her mother had been furious when she’d turned up late for tea, covered in mud. Poor Nanny was blamed for this disgrace. It had not stopped Penny searching the ploughed fields for Roman remains, bits of tiles and pottery, which were later hidden in shoe boxes. Once she’d even found a coin stamped with an emperor’s head. She wished she knew Latin so she could understand what it said. Her interest made every walk in the brown Cotswold fields an adventure into history.

  At least Miss Francis let her clean her finds and draw them in her special jotter. That was one thing she was good at: line drawing, sketching in pen and ink. Miss Francis said she had a good eye for accurate representation but not for imaginary stuff.

  Here in the castle library was a whole world of fresh books, including one on her favourite topic: Digging up the Past by Sir Leonard Woolley. It had pictures of digs in faraway, exotic places: Egypt, Persia and Greece. Penny idly wondered if she could borrow it for a day or two, but Mother would only snatch it away in disgust saying, ‘You really are the most unnatural girl. I didn’t bring you into the world to be a blue stocking.’

  She sometimes wondered why they’d bothered to produce her at all. They’d got one of each, Evadne and Alexander. She was just an afterthought and the wrong sex. Girls were expensive to bring out and so they didn’t get the education Zan took as his due. It was so unfair.

  She’d managed to slip her chaperone one afternoon in London and found an exhibition in Burlington House showing details of the Palace of Knossos, with reproductions of frescos and what looked like a wonderful blue monkey. She persuaded Evadne to visit the British Museum, spending hours going through the Ancient History rooms, marvelling at the wonderful relics of past civilizations while Evadne yawned with boredom. This made Penny determined to get a library ticket in Cheltenham, the nearest town to Stokencourt, and carry on her studies in secret. She borrowed everything to do with ancient history.

  Then there had been a mix-up over a library fine for a book she’d not been able to get back on time. Mother had torn into her in fury. ‘What do mean, Penelope, sneaking behind our backs? What are we going to do to curtail all this silliness?’

  ‘It’s not silly. I want to go to college,’ she’d snapped. ‘I’m going to be an archaeologist.’

  Everyone at the dining table had roared.

  ‘Don’t answer me back! Girls of our class don’t do . . . they just are, future partners to the great and good of the country. Papa, tell her! I was married at your age, Penelope, and never read a book in my life. It’s just time-wasting.’

  Fabia turned to her husband, who slunk behind his paper muttering, ‘This one’s got a mind of her own. Let her use it or she’ll make mischief

  Penny knew Papa was on her side but no one stood up to Mother when she was on the warpath.

  ‘Over my dead body!’ Fabia exclaimed. ‘She needs to learn obedience. Look at her, like a beanpole, and the way she slouches . . . I pay for all those dancing lessons and still she hunches her shoulders, plus her skin is too brown.’ She paused, eyeing Penny with distaste. ‘But I suppose one of our brats had to inherit your Greek colouring, Phillip. Sit up straight, girl, for once. You need fattening up.’

  ‘I’m not a turkey for Christmas. I’d really like to go to college, take exams. I don’t want a season. If it’s the expense, think of the money you’d save. I could earn my keep. Miss Francis said there were courses—’

  ‘No granddaughter of Sir Lionel Dellamane gets a job.’ Fabia spat out the word as if it was poison and that was the end of the conversation. She stormed off, leaving Penny in tears of frustration.

  Her father sighed. ‘Bad luck, old girl, but she really wants the best for you.’

  ‘She wants the best for herself,’ Penny muttered out of earshot. Her mother was nothing but a snob. The titled Dellamanes might go back to the Conquest but their wealth came from banking, and the success of Lady Fabia’s husband’s Greek grandfather in trade, from shipping, something she chose to ignore, anglicizing his surname whenever she could. Penny was a reminder of that heritage; a dark-eyed blonde with walnut-coloured arms.

  Yet the changing of their name was the one concession that Fabia had not been able to force through. Phillip was proud of his family and made sure his children learned to speak his mother tongue. It had helped Zan through his classics studies at Harrow. Penny had copied out lessons from his textbooks but it was hard to study without encouragement. Miss Francis taught the girls only French, ready for finishing school in Switzerland, should it be needed . . .

  A bell rang summoning everyone to change and Penny reluctantly stuck the book on the shelf, making a vow to return. Up in their suite of rooms, everyone was fussing over Evadne’s hair and make-up. She really did look beautiful in her white satin ball dress, and radiant with something no powder puff could create. Effy was clearly in love. The wedding would be in spring and Mother was already planning the trousseau and wedding dress. Penny would miss her big sister when she moved into her own home in London, but there was always the chance of visiting her and escaping Mother’s regimented routines, a chance, too, to explore all London had to offer.

  ‘Why aren’t you dressed?’ Fabia glared at her muddy da
ughter, still in her stalking gear. ‘Who lent you those trousers? You really are the giddy limit, such a tomboy. You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge. How are we going to smarten you in time for the ball? Thank goodness you’re not out for another year,’ she sighed, pointing to the door. ‘We’ll have to lick you into shape or you’ll end up a farmer’s wife,’ Mother continued her lecture outside the bathroom door after Penny had reluctantly retreated there. ‘Tonight you’ll sit with the other young girls and watch and learn.’ Penny dunked her head under the water to drown out the strident voice. She didn’t care what Mother thought. Her parents didn’t know who Penny really was inside. It was Effy and Nanny who listened to her tears and troubles. Papa tried his best but was always busy or away. And what was wrong with being a farmer’s wife? When she married it would be for love, not to satisfy her mother’s social aspirations.

  The magnificent ballroom shimmered with candlelight and polished wood, a riot of coloured kilts and black velvet jackets, ladies in their long white dresses and tartan sashes, swords and banners and portraits on the walls. The pipers drowned the air with their tunes and the smoke from pipes and cigars wafted up the stairs where Penny stood taking in the scene as if it was a painting come to life.

  In the centre Effy and her fiancé were taking to the floor in honour of their formal announcement. On her finger flashed a cluster of diamonds and sapphires, matching the blue of her sparkling eyes. It was her night, her moment of glory, and Mother stood still in her lavender velvet dress, her hair plastered into swirling waves, admiring her offspring and receiving compliments like a queen among courtiers. It was her moment too, her mission accomplished, one daughter engaged to be married.

  Penny observed the scene knowing it would be Mother’s last such triumph; there was no way she would go through all that rigmarole to find a mate. She’d read enough biology to know that it was all simply about breeding with the right sort to produce good stock for the future. There had to be more to life than weddings and parties and comings-out.

  She sat with a line of other future debs, who were tapping their feet, itching to get on the floor with the dashing men with sturdy calves and broad chests swirling their partners around as the music quickened and grew wilder. There was a protocol and their turn would come later tonight. Penny thought it was unfair to be tethered to chairs and polite conversation when there was fun going on.

  Mother stood behind her, pointing out a group of young men in the corner, laughing loudly, their whisky glasses glinting in the firelight. ‘That must be the Balrannoch rabble . . . Good-looking specimens but wild. I hear Lord Balrannoch never could control his boys,’ she added, sizing them up as if they were cattle. ‘The tall one’s just a friend. He sounds like he’s from the Colonies,’ she muttered. ‘Expelled from Eton, so I am told.’ She sniffed, eyeing him with disdain. ‘The other brother, Torquil or Tormod, is in the army . . . Pity their mother died and left them to run wild. Still, they do cut a dash on the dance floor.’

  A woman in a tartan sash, standing behind her chair, whispered, ’Fabia, have you got your eye on one of those boys for Penelope? She could do far worse . . .’

  Penny anxiously strained to hear the reply.

  ‘Not yet, but I was wondering if there was a sister . . .’

  ‘For Alexander? Afraid not, just boys. There’s a quieter one that might do for Penelope, though.’

  Penny felt her cheeks flushing with fury. She was not going to be foisted on anyone, and she slipped out of the chair, saying she wanted the lavatory, desperate for fresh air. The torch-lit corridors were dark but she knew her way by now to the library. Here it was quiet and cool, the lamps were lit and the log fire was crackling and warm. Blissfully alone, she made for the book about archaeology that had so fired her imagination. She settled down into one of the deep leather chairs. No one would miss her for a while.

  Her eye caught a copy of the Scottish Field, and a catalogue for an exhibition at the Ashmolean showing pottery from some recent excavation at the Palace at Knossos. Oxford wasn’t far from home. If she was careful she could suggest a shopping trip with Effy and persuade her to see the exhibits. It was worth a try.

  ‘Not bad . . .’

  Penny jumped at the sound of the voice behind her.

  ‘I’ve seen some of those artefacts for real. Over 5,000 years old, and they look as if they were made yesterday. You interested in all this?’

  Penny turned to see who was talking; the accent was unlike any she’d ever heard before, deep and round. He was one of the crowd in the corner, one of Mother’s wild boys from Balrannoch. ‘Where did you see them?’ She eyed the young man. He was taller than Zan, with black hair plastered down with Brylcreem, his lace jabot already splattered with gravy stains.

  ‘On an island off the Greek coast, we watched them being brushed out of the ground. We washed the bits and pieced them, well, those who were trained up did . . . I just observed. I was a summer student in Athens, the British School of Archaeology, brilliant place.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. I’d love to do something like that,’ Penny sighed. Why did boys get all the opportunities, the foreign travel to exotic places?

  ‘They take female students. You can always apply . . . It’s backbreaking work in the heat and dust, and you have to pay, of course, but give it a shot. Go next year.’ He smiled as if it was the easiest thing on earth to do. As he talked she saw his black eyes flashing with enthusiasm, smelled the whisky fumes on his breath. No one had ever talked to her as an equal before.

  ‘Where’re you from?’ she asked. ‘You don’t sound Scottish.’

  ‘My parents emigrated to New Zealand but sent me to board here. It’s where I met Torquil and Tormod, the mad twins . . .’ he laughed, and she thought it sounded like a peal of bells. ‘I’m at Cambridge. I want to be an archaeologist but my pa says I must join the forces when I’ve finished. Where’re you at school?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Penny blushed, ashamed. ‘Evadne’s getting married next year . . . It’ll be my season after that,’ she muttered as if it were an apology.

  ‘So you’re the little George sister. We’ve heard about you . . .’

  Penny bristled. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re the one who can hit a target straight out and outpace some of the older gillies. The mountain goat, they call you.’ He was laughing, looking at her amused. ‘I’m Bruce, Bruce Jardine, in borrowed plumes, I’m afraid.’ He indicated his kilt. ‘Jardines are Lowlanders, don’t have a clan tartan so I borrowed one from Torquil’s clan . . .’

  ‘I’m Penelope George, but then you know that already,’ she said smartly, suddenly feeling uncomfortable at the backhanded compliment. Was he mocking her?

  ‘Old pots are not the sort of thing most of the debs I know go in for, but it figures,’ he added, eyeing her book with interest. ‘I’m doing a slide show about a dig in Greece tomorrow, if it’s wet.’

  ‘Where?’ she asked, despite herself.

  ‘In here, that’s why I was doing a recce. You’ll see what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I’m not going to be a deb,’ she announced suddenly.

  ‘Good for you. What will you do then? University?’

  ‘You must be joking! My mother would have a fit. And I’d never make the grades. But one thing’s certain, they can’t make me go into that cattle market.’ She blinked back tears of frustration. Bruce sat down beside her, his eyes fixed on hers with a look of sympathy. He was really listening to her. He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it. She could smell the rich aroma of his tobacco. Nobody ever listened to her at home, not about serious stuff. It felt so safe with him next to her, the fire crackling in the hearth and the lamps flickering, a world away from the noisy ballroom upstairs. She sat back on the sofa, wanting this moment to go on for ever.

  ‘If you want something badly enough, you’ll make it happen,’ my old nanny used to say. “Find what you love and do it well.” That was another of her sayings. See you tomorrow!’ />
  Then he was gone and the room felt empty as if a fire had gone out. Penny shivered. Time she too went back to the ball before Mother sent out a search party. But instead she sat back in the leather sofa, turning over their meeting in her mind. Why did she resent being called a mountain goat? Why did she suddenly yearn to be on that dance floor under the spotlight like Effy rather than stuck on the sidelines?

  Find what you love and do it well: it’s all right for you, Bruce, but what about me? How do I change my destiny, defy my parents’ plans, get myself an education that will allow me to follow my dreams? There must be a way, but will I be brave enough to take such a daring path to freedom? There’s just a chance, if you are on my side and believe in me. Then it might be possible.

  Suddenly life didn’t feel quite so bleak after all, and she jumped up to join the dance.

  2001

  I woke next morning, smiling at the memory of that first meeting with Bruce Jardine so long ago and those first longings wakened within me, but also the shame at being so uneducated, so ignorant of the wider world. I recalled how the following evening I’d crept into the darkened room where the shutters were closed against the autumn gloom, ready to devour his talk and slide show. A handful of guests sat staring at the white sheet on the wall, their cigar fumes spiralling like blue mist before the projector.

  Bruce’s slide show transported us into another world, a world scarcely glimpsed in the Pathé newsreels in the cinema. There were snow-capped mountains set against a tinted blue sky, a harbour full of ancient sailing boats he called caïques, men in strange costume, baggy pantaloons and knee boots and waistcoats, with thick moustaches on their rugged warrior-like faces. He’d taken shots of their team leaders, the Pendleburys, a couple who were the curators of the British School of Archaeology, with premises on Crete, a tall man who had a glass eye and his tiny wife, Hilda, peering across at the camera, blinking against the sun.