by Jan Casey
‘Every year without fail?’ she asked.
‘Aye.’ He nodded, turning to check on the dogs in the back.
‘Sometimes we get snow in London. Other years, nothing.’
‘Well, I hope you’ve got some sturdy boots with you,’ he said with what Viola thought was a touch of amusement.
The baby stirred and Viola knew that any minute she would start crying for a feed. She joggled her gently, although the commotion of the car making its way over potholes and through puddles would cancel out the soothing movement.
‘My footwear is probably all terribly impractical,’ she said, looking down at her lace-up brogues. ‘I shall have to look into purchasing a pair of sturdy boots and some woollen socks.’
‘Och, no need to bother,’ he said. ‘Jeanie will have some you can borrow.’
There were a lot of sheep around and Viola wondered if they stayed out in the snow. Perhaps she would ask when she knew Mr Barfoot better and he might think her less of a fool. Or she might wait and see when the time came.
Then, during one of the many times he took his eyes off the road, she thought he hazarded a glance at her ring finger. In her mind, she beat her fist against her forehead. Why hadn’t she asked Mrs Watkins what these kind people had been told about her? Did they know she was an unmarried mother with no prospect of a returning father for Freddie? Or were the Barfoots not given any information and it was left up to Viola to tell them what she would about her situation? And would it matter to them if they did know?
Turning her face to the window, she worried at the place on her lip she’d bitten earlier and tried to decide on a version of her story that would cause Freddie the least trouble. Before she was conscious of what she was doing, she secreted her ring finger under the folds of the baby blanket and felt around it with her thumb. She could have bought a cheap ring and worn it, then no one would have taken a surreptitious peek at her hand, no questions would have been asked, no whispers in the small shop or after church. But she had decided against that as to do so would have been a denial of how the war had robbed her of Fred and their future together. Besides, the only ring she wanted on her finger was the one that had been waiting, but would now remain, around her neck. She supposed that if pushed, she could say she had been widowed and taken off the ring as officially she was no longer married. Each narrative she considered seemed more complicated than the last. Of course, she didn’t want herself or Freddie to be ostracised, but she decided that she would not offer any explanation at all until asked outright and then she would tell the truth about Fred being in Germany and about having Freddie because she had been lonely. When she turned back, she smiled at Mr Barfoot and asked about the running of his farm.
‘Och,’ he said. ‘Partly arable – spring barley, winter barley and wheat, potatoes. And the ubiquitous sheep.’
The thought of lamb and mint sauce caused saliva to pool in her mouth, followed swiftly by a hollowness in the pit of her stomach when she remembered the last meal she’d had with Fred in her parents’ house on the night of their failed engagement, the plate of untouched meat and the yellow fat, congealing around the outside of her plate as the gravy grew cold. ‘We don’t see much lamb in London,’ she said. ‘Mutton, but that’s not the same.’
‘Aye well, it’s requisitioned to the government,’ he said. ‘So I donnae know where it ends up, but we’re not short of lamb chops, roast lamb, lamb casserole and lamb fricassee here. We’re all sick of it and you will be, too. Believe me.’
She wondered if that would be the case.
‘Baaa,’ he blurted out in an alarming way. ‘See? I’ve turned into a lamb I’ve eaten so much of the stuff.’
Viola laughed out loud and Mr Barfoot seemed pleased with her response. This, thought Viola, is going to be alright.
Another few meandering miles rolled past. Mr Barfoot drew Viola’s attention to a number of bonnie burns, a vivid heather-covered glen, the back green of Mrs McKenzie’s cottage and countless flocks of sheep who were owned by various farmers. How Mr Barfoot could tell one from another she did not know.
‘There.’ He pointed to a large, white house in the distance, an ancient, gnarled tree standing guard next to it, snowy sheets and towels blowing in the breeze in the garden. ‘There’s our Ould Aik Farm.’ He sounded as if he was talking about a person he loved very much.
‘What does the name mean?’ Viola asked.
‘Old Oak.’
‘Of course. I can see where that comes from.’
‘And if you follow the track with your eyes, up the hill and to the left, you will see the roof of your croft. Your new home.’
Nestled between two dips, she could make out what was probably a thatched roof, a strand of smoke disappearing into the sky from a chimney, two small windows set in a whitewashed wall. From this distance it looked cosy and welcoming, but she hadn’t expected it to be so far from the main house and so isolated. Then again, she hadn’t known what to expect and now it was too late to turn back.
Without any warning, Mr Barfoot brought the car to a halt. ‘Just in time,’ he said. ‘The wee one’s chewing her fists so she must be hungry. Wait there, Mrs Baxter, I’ll come round and help you out.’
So, Mrs Baxter it was. Perhaps that was how Mrs Watkins had filled in the forms she sent on to the Barfoots. Or maybe it was a presumption on their part. Either way, it solved a dilemma for her and she had no intention of correcting them at this point.
Mr Barfoot opened her door and offered his hand for her to lean on. At the same time he somehow managed to release the dogs, who shook themselves then sat at his feet, waiting for their next order. ‘Jeanie,’ he called out. ‘Here they are. Safe and sound.’
A lovely, round woman in a white apron appeared in the doorway. She had fair hair drawn back in a loose bun, dark brown eyes, flour on her forehead and hands. ‘Och, Fin.’ Her voice was a soft sing-song. ‘I was getting worried. I thought you were driving home via Aberdeen.’
Mr Barfoot laughed. ‘Hold your whisht, woman,’ he said. He cupped his hand under Viola’s elbow and steered her towards his wife. ‘Jeanie, this is Mrs Baxter. And Freddie.’
Mrs Barfoot wiped her palms with vigour on her apron, then grasped Viola’s hand. ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘And to Freddie.’ She peered in amongst the blankets. ‘We were told you had a baby girl.’
‘Freddie is a girl,’ her husband said and shrugged. ‘London ways are a mystery to us, Mrs Baxter.’
Oblivious to their new surroundings, the fuss being made of her, this huge change in their lives, Freddie started to wail for a feed. Viola thought this must be what people meant when they said life went on.
‘Och she’s hungry,’ Mrs Barfoot said. ‘Come in, come in. You must be, too, hen. And tired.’
She was exhausted, light-headed and a tiny bit faint.
‘Sit here.’ Mrs Baxter showed her to a rocking chair. ‘You take care of the baby. I’ll get us a cup of tea. Dinner is on the go. I hope you like lamb?’
Mr Barfoot bleated another disquieting ‘Baaa’ and laughed from his boots at his rendition. His wife rolled her eyes but smiled broadly.
Viola had thought Mr and Mrs Barfoot would waste no time in showing her the croft and leaving her there, with Freddie, to settle in. But it seemed they had the entire afternoon mapped out for her in the main house with them. They could not have been more accommodating and their easy, relaxed manner made Viola feel rather stiff and reserved. But, she reminded herself, this was their home, their territory, and she was the guest. She realised as the time went by that the Barfoots were jovial with each other, with her and with the farmhand who knocked on the door a couple of times. So, she presumed that was the way they communicated all the time. It was lovely to hear them, talking so naturally and gently chiding each other. They gave everyone their full attention when they spoke as if they truly valued what others had to say. When listening intently, Mrs Barfoot had an endearing way of tilting her head to one side, which gave her an aura
of being understanding and sympathetic. And it was all so genuine.
After the baby was fed, topped and tailed, Mrs Barfoot insisted on taking the dirty napkin and washing it in her big, stone sink. Her hands looked pink and sore when she took them out of the water, but she dried them on her apron and didn’t seem to notice. They had tea and cake, a short walk around the garden and outhouses, she was introduced to Donald, the hired hand who tipped his hat at her and said something indecipherable and then they went back into the house for dinner. Mrs Barfoot had conjured up lamb and vegetable pasties, mashed swede and turnips all covered in gravy. To follow, there was a blackberry and apple crumble with custard. Not one word was spoken about the war other than referring to her as being an evacuee. Mrs Barfoot reiterated what her husband had said about calling them by their Christian names; again Viola said that would be difficult for her, but added they must feel free to call her Viola. Or Vi.
‘Another London way,’ Mr Barfoot said.
‘Have you ever been to London?’ Viola asked.
They both shook their heads. ‘I’ve been to Glasgow twice,’ Mr Barfoot said. ‘And Edinburgh once. But I was glad to get back.’
‘And I’ve been no further than Ayr,’ Mrs Barfoot said.
Viola felt her eyebrows arch in surprise.
‘Och, I know,’ Mrs Barfoot said. ‘I’m not very adventurous, am I? But I’ve got all I want here.’ She spread her arms wide and Mr Barfoot smiled at her. ‘Now, tomorrow we can walk into the village and I’ll show you where to get your rations and then you can cook for yourself in your little croft. But the wee lassie we had above often used to come here, which we enjoyed. So we hope you’ll feel welcome to do that, too. No need to give me advance warning or wait for a special invitation, just turn up. Fiona and little Heather used to spend more time down here with us than they did up there, but of course that will be your prerogative. We also used to go into Ayr together for the shopping we can’t get here and I’d certainly be glad of the company if you would.’
Viola nodded and tried to take it all in. She had longed for solitude and peace and wondered how obliged she would feel to follow in Fiona’s footsteps. But when Mr Barfoot said he would drive her up the hill so she could settle in before it was dark, she felt a lurch of anxiety and knew she would miss the warm kitchen, Mrs Barfoot’s lilting register, her hosts’ easy manner and their company. When she, Freddie, their bags and the three dogs were once again bundled into the car and she’d waved goodbye to Mrs Barfoot, the little croft looked a long way away.
‘How long does it take to walk down?’ she asked.
‘Well…’ Mr Barfoot thought about his answer as he veered around a small flock of sheep who stared at them as if they were trespassing. ‘Depends. Twenty minutes or so, I’d say. Going down. Going back up you’d have to add another five minutes. Then again it takes longer with a baby carriage. Of course if it’s raining, snowing, sleeting, windy or otherwise inclement it takes longer. And if the girls are in the way…’
‘The girls?’
‘The sheep,’ he carried on. ‘Then you sometimes have to detour around them or wait for them to move or forget your trip for the day.’ He said all of this in a nonchalant way as if it was the most ordinary situation in the world. Well, for him it must be, she supposed.
‘If they do get in your way, you can clap at them and they will usually scuttle off, but you cannae scare them if they’re lactating as their milk might dry up.’
‘How will I know?’ she asked.
‘You have to look at their undercarriage,’ he said and again he sounded slightly amused at her lack of knowledge about the natural world.
‘Of course,’ she replied, trying to come across as knowing.
‘Now, here we are.’ He pulled up without slowing down. His driving seemed to consist of go and stop, nothing in between.
Viola was taken aback to see that no key was involved in opening the door, in fact there didn’t seem to be any kind of lock worked into the wooden panels. She stepped straight into a small sitting room, a fireplace at one end in which glowed the ends of an earlier fire. Next to it was a scuttle full of what looked like clods of earth. ‘I’ve filled you up with peat,’ Mr Barfoot said. ‘And the lean-to is about to burst open with the stuff so you won’t go cold. Here, let me stoke you up again.’ He bent over the open fire, threw in a couple of blocks of fuel, blew on them with the bellows, stood up and brushed his hands on his trousers.
‘Do you have to blackout here?’ she asked.
Mr Barfoot nodded. ‘Everywhere,’ he said. ‘You’ll hear German planes flying over, but they donnae bother with us. Well, never have. And we donnae want them to notice a speck of light and think they’ll have a go, do we?’
‘Of course not,’ she said.
‘This is the kitchen.’ Viola followed him into a small room dominated by a type of range she’d never seen before, let alone used. Mr Barfoot opened a drawer built into the side of the black stove and told her that was where the peat went. ‘I’m afraid you have to boil a kettle or saucepan for hot water.’
‘Oh.’ She tried to sound more confident than she felt. ‘I’m sure I can manage that.’
‘To get you started, there’s a small loaf, dried milk, an ounce of tea and matches in the press.’
Then she followed her host upstairs, bobbing when he did under the low ceiling. In a room at the top of the stairs, a bed was made up and next to it was a crib. A green-patterned bowl and jug stood on a washstand, a bar of soap and towel next to it. ‘Jeanie put a hot stone in your bed earlier,’ Mr Barfoot said. ‘But it might be cold now.’
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Viola said.
‘There’s not much we can do,’ he said. ‘For the war effort. Except this and the lamb and the barley. It’s really not onerous.’
At the front door, Mr Barfoot chucked Freddie under her chin and said goodnight to Viola. ‘You must let us know if you need anything or if you cannae find things. And hopefully we’ll see you tomorrow.’
Viola nodded and wished she could think of a question now, to keep him here for a few more minutes. ‘Is there a torch?’ she asked.
‘On the table in the kitchen,’ he said.
‘And where do I… you know. Where are the facilities?’
‘There’s an outhouse near the back door and a pot under the bed.’
‘And a door key?’
He looked bemused. ‘You can latch yourselves in,’ he said. ‘But that’s the closest any of us here have to a lock and key. Down, girls,’ he addressed the dogs. ‘Goodnight, Viola and Freddie,’ he said. Then he put the car into gear and was gone. Viola watched until the last trace of him disappeared down the hill, pulled Freddie close to her, went in through the minuscule door and latched it behind them.
For the first time, Freddie drifted off and slept for a good six hours, but although Viola’s whole body ached with exhaustion, she could barely sleep. It was much too quiet for her liking. There wasn’t simply a lack of noise, but a sense of calm and stillness she’d never experienced pervaded the outside world and permeated the croft; it was like a heavy blanket covering her head and shoulders and making it difficult to breathe. So overpowering was the silence, that she found herself on edge waiting for something that would break the spell. That did happen occasionally in the form of an owl hooting, a sheep bleating, a scuttle here, an animal cry there. Then the peat in the fireplace would shift and she’d sit bolt upright wondering for a moment what it could be. A few times she thought she heard the latch on the door being lifted, but then she reminded herself that she’d wedged a chair under it so if someone did try to get in, she would hear it scraping along the floor. She knew, of course, where she was and why, but she reeled with disbelief every time she realised that she was alone, in the wilds of Scotland with a tiny baby to care for.
She was grateful when Freddie woke, crying for a feed. Viola grabbed her from her crib and, sitting up in bed, pressed her close. The window was within touching
distance, as was almost everything and she dared to lift a corner of the blackout and peek outside. Dawn streaked grey and violet across the sky and she could make out the looming shapes of sheep and hillocks, dark and foreboding against the pastel glow. As Freddie drained her breasts, the tension flooded from her. In its place was a sense of elation – she’d made it through the first night and now that hurdle was over, she hoped she would go on to feel stronger and more settled.
Despite her lack of sleep, she was full of energy. Making a cocoon out of a couple of blankets, she laid Freddie safely on the floor to sleep. First, she needed to empty the pot and then relieve herself. The lavatory was a hole in the ground which she stood and gawped at, her mouth as round as the one she was supposed to crouch over. Next to it was a bucket of water, a couple of insects skating over its surface, which she guessed should be used to flush. Steeling herself, she squatted. A couple of uncomfortable minutes passed during which she shuffled on her aching legs and peered into the abyss beneath her. When at last the stream started, water splashed on her legs so she scrambled closer to the hole. Strips of newspaper hanging on a nail had to suffice as toilet paper and the scrunch of it on her intimate parts made her shudder. But, when she finished and gathered herself together, she burst into laughter at the whole process. Lillian would love that story.
By the time she was dressed and had changed the baby again, light filled the sky and she could pull the blackouts and begin to get herself organised. She set about finding a bucket in which to wash dirty napkins. Next she lit the stove to boil water for tea, looked for kitchen utensils, pots and pans to consider meals, pulled an old clothes horse out of a cupboard and set it up ready to dry wet clothes, scrubbed the kitchen table, sorted out bedding and towels, unpacked her belongings and put them away in cupboards and sideboards. Feeling satisfied with what she’d accomplished, she prepared another cup of tea to drink whilst she sat on the couch and fed Freddie. She would have to decide whether to try to get to the village for rations or ask to eat again with the Barfoots.
