by Karen Brooks
Perhaps seeing where Sorcha’s thoughts were taking her, Nettie refilled their drinks, and raised her quaich again. ‘To old friends and new beginnings.’
‘To old friends and new beginnings,’ the women said in unison, almost shyly, touching the lips of their cups and drinking solemnly. Smiles were exchanged that filled the eyes and made Sorcha’s soul melt.
God, she’d missed these women.
‘Welcome home, Sorcha,’ whispered Nettie, her eyes brimming with those unasked questions before she rested her cheek briefly on Sorcha’s knee. Sorcha stroked her hair.
‘It’s good to be back. Better than I hoped.’
‘And better than those soldiers intended,’ added Nicolas.
‘I hope they’re enjoying their celebrations,’ said Beatrix drolly.
‘I’ll drink to that too,’ said Nicolas, and with shrieks of laughter they all toasted the men.
As the evening wore on, they barely ceased talking, determined to fill Sorcha in on what had been happening in her absence. There’d been two marriages, a few births and deaths, and a couple of drownings at sea — the Morrison lad and a man from Anster Easter. Hesitant at first to tell her, it was only when Sorcha insisted that they revealed the sad tidings. Three families had left Pittenweem to try and improve their fortunes in Edinburgh and another had arrived from St Monan’s. Though, as Nicolas noted wryly, how that family expected to fare better in the Weem than a neighbouring village a mere walk away, she couldn’t fathom. The catch had, overall, been poor, even for the ships that had left the Forth and sailed north. Not even the salt pan was as productive as it had once been. If it wasn’t for another coal mine opening nearby and a maltster setting up operations, there’d be more families relying on the parish for sustenance. As it was, men were being lured away from fishing to other occupations, including soldiering. Things were fairly dire.
Talk of soldiers turned the conversation to war and the men who’d taken up arms for the Queen, including the trio who’d accosted them earlier. Sorcha began to think of her brother Robbie again, praying that, against all odds, he was alive. Though how he could be after so many years locked up in a prison in a foreign land, she knew not. Best not to dwell on him either.
The conversation shifted to the recruits billeted in town, the women reassuring Sorcha they weren’t all like Privates Donall and Dyson or the sneering Englishman.
Finally, Sorcha was able to raise the question she’d been longing to ask. ‘Tell me about that dragoon, Captain… What was his name again?’ she asked, fooling no one.
‘Bonnie?’ teased Nettie with a leery grin.
‘Was he? I barely noticed.’ Sorcha laughed. ‘Aye, him. Why’s he riding about town with a drawn sword? And who’s the burly sergeant? I confess, they made me start when they first appeared. I wasn’t sure whether they’d come to help us or the soldiers.’
‘The captain’s sworn to protect us poor Weem women.’ Nettie swooned in her chair.
‘Aye, and the fine sergeant too,’ added Beatrix with a salty wink.
‘From what?’ asked Sorcha. If Weem women need protecting then more had changed since she’d left than she first thought.
‘From their men,’ said Nettie dryly.
‘Not their men, exactly,’ countered Nicolas. ‘Captain Ross replaced the former captain, remember him? Captain Douglas? Under whose command a woman was raped. His sergeant was transferred too and Captain Ross and Sergeant Thatcher came in their place.’
Sorcha sat up. ‘I remember the rape. Captain Douglas said his men had nothing to do with it.’
‘Aye. Only their bloody pintles. Poor Lizzie Johnson. She wasn’t believed; not at first,’ said Nettie. ‘Didn’t help that Reverend Cowper put it about that any woman fraternising with the soldiers deserved what she got.’
Sorcha shook her head in disgust. ‘Lizzie Johnson comes from a good family.’
‘Not as far as Cowper’s concerned,’ said Beatrix. ‘They’re Jacobites, remember?’
‘Aren’t we all,’ sniggered Nettie.
‘Anyways,’ Beatrix frowned at the interruption, ‘Lizzie was stepping out with a soldier so Cowper said she brought it upon herself. Didn’t matter the man who ravished her was not the same as the one who was sweet on her.’
Nettie pulled a face. ‘You know I’ve no time for the reverend and while I don’t want to defend him, there were some who thought he said that to prevent fights breaking out between the fishermen and the soldiers. The Johnsons and the McMannings were fit to murder and God knows what would have happened had they set upon the soldiers. Cowper’s words, blaming poor Lizzie, made them think twice.’
‘Wasn’t Cowper made them think twice,’ said Beatrix. ‘Was Captain Ross. He be a good man… for an incomer.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Nicolas. ‘For an incomer.’
‘To incomers,’ said Nettie, raising her cup again. They drank another toast.
Reaching for the bottle of whisky and first topping up her friends’ drinks, Sorcha added the last of it to her own. This captain had done the nigh-on impossible — earned the admiration, if not gratitude, of not just Nettie and her friends but the close-knit villagers. Something that had all but eluded her mor. Sorrow threatened to swamp her.
‘Och, you’ve naught to worry about when it comes to Captain Aidan Ross,’ said Nettie, misunderstanding where her friend’s thoughts had taken her and nudging the others. They giggled. ‘He’s doing a much better job of keeping his men in order than his predecessor or those soldiers tonight indicate.’
‘Well, he did stop them,’ said Beatrix. ‘Him and the sergeant.’
‘According to the reverend,’ said Nettie, ‘the captain doesn’t exercise enough authority. At least, not in the way Cowper thinks he should.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Cowper only moans because he believes his flock is straying,’ said Beatrix, flapping her hand. ‘It’s not up to the captain to force parishioners to attend kirk on Sundays. It’s hardly his fault if some of the men like to share a drink with the soldiers instead of listening to Cowper blast fire and brimstone upon them. I know what I’d choose if I could afford the fine.’
They raised their cups in agreement, all except Sorcha, who was deep in thought. As an officer, Captain Ross might know something of the war. He may even know about the fate of any prisoners…
Talk wandered to what was going on within their own families, then they dared to wonder what the new year would bring. Nettie declared if Sorcha’s unexpected return was anything to go by, the year 1704 would be a good one. But only a first-footer would reveal the truth.
An old custom, and not confined to Pittenweem, it was believed the first person to step over the threshold of a household after midnight on Hogmanay was an omen of the year to come.
If nothing else, discussing first-footers was a signal for the women to return to their families. They wanted to be home to witness who stumbled through their doorways after the clock struck twelve. With hugs, kisses and promises to meet down by the harbour early on the morrow, Beatrix and Nicolas left.
Finally, Sorcha and Nettie were alone.
‘You sure you don’t want to see the new year in with Thom?’ asked Sorcha, secretly hoping her friend remained. ‘I’ll understand if you do. Now I’m back, there’s no need for you to stay.’
‘What would I want to see him for?’ Nettie gave a careless flick of her wrist. ‘I can see him any day. You, I’m not so sure about.’ She smiled warmly to take the sting out of her words. ‘That is, if you don’t mind having me here.’
Sorcha smiled. ‘Mind? I would have insisted if I didn’t think it was wrong to usurp your husband.’
Nettie laughed and then her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. ‘Thom understands. Once he heard you’d returned, he went over to Anster to celebrate with Rebecca and her lad, Jimmy.’ She gave a slow, secret smile. ‘Anyhow, I want to know why you’ve come back so soon. Far as I recall, you were to stay away till May.’
‘Aye, well,
that’s true. But things change.’
Nettie drew her chair closer. ‘That they do. But why did you change your mind? Not that I’m complaining. I couldn’t be happier. But I ken something bad has happened to bring you home early, and at this time of year. So, tell me, lass. What ails you?’
FOUR
Ye wee lummer!
(Comment on a woman’s wild and immoral behaviour.)
It was a relief to finally tell someone she trusted why she’d come home. Nettie listened intently, her drink nestled in her palm as if it were a baby bird, her eyes locked on Sorcha as she spoke.
‘I should have seen what was happening,’ sighed Sorcha. ‘I don’t know whether I turned a blind eye deliberately because I was flattered by Kennocht’s attention, even though he was Dagny’s husband, or because I never thought my brother-in-law, the father of six bonnie bairns, would consider me in such a light.’ She shrugged. ‘Either way, I should’ve known. All those long talks after Dagny and the bairns were abed, the times he took me to help with the lambing, the trips to St Andrew’s for stores, and even once to Edinburgh. But they weren’t to spare Dagny, as he claimed, but so he might have me to himself. That’s not vanity speaking either. That’s what he told me, plain and simple.’ She paused. ‘That was before he kissed me.’
Nettie’s eyes widened before she waved a hand dismissively. ‘Och,’ she exclaimed. ‘He wouldn’t be the first to steal a kiss from a bonnie lass, and he won’t be the last — be she kin or no.’
‘That’s not the issue,’ said Sorcha hesitantly.
Nettie arched a brow, her hazel eyes piercing. ‘What was the problem, then?’
Aware her cheeks were hot, her body moreso and not just from the fire, Sorcha released a long, tired sigh. It was time to confess. ‘I kissed him back.’
Nettie buried a smile and rearranged her skirt. ‘When you say, “kissed him back”, what exactly do you mean?’
Sorcha gave a dry laugh. ‘What do you think I mean? Instead of pushing him away as a decent person would have done, I drew my body into his and felt yearning rise up in me like the sun on a hot summer’s day. If he hadn’t groaned when he did, reminding me of who I was a-kissing and where we were, I don’t want to think what would have happened.’ Sorcha reached for the whisky and frowned as a few meagre drops splashed into her cup.
Praying Nettie wasn’t still regarding her with those all-knowing eyes, she rose to fetch another drink. Her hand found a flagon of ale, but she delayed returning to her chair, trying to dissemble. She wasn’t being entirely honest — neither with Nettie nor herself. A part of her had known it was Kennocht she was kissing and didn’t care. It was as if the devil had taken over her body, whispering to her that Dagny didn’t deserve him. Her sister didn’t give a tinker’s cuss about her family, about Sorcha, having left her to fend for herself in the Weem even after their da, mor and brother died. She didn’t believe Robbie was alive and had no compunction about sharing this view with Sorcha — or anybody else who’d listen — regardless of the pain it caused her sister. Why should Sorcha be concerned about her feelings? Dagny was a cold one anyway. Why, she hadn’t come home when their mor died, nor when Andy or Davan passed. Didn’t matter she was with another bairn. Nary a note or message, she’d left Sorcha to wallow in the grief she wasn’t supposed to show.
But it was more than that.
Deep down, Sorcha worried that she’d kissed Kennocht back out of spite, to pay Dagny back for the way she’d treated her while they were growing up. Resenting Sorcha from the moment she was born, she’d been a cruel older sister, determined to make Sorcha’s life as miserable as she felt her own to be. It didn’t help that their mother never intervened in their bickering or, when she did, more often took Dagny’s side. Loathing the ways of the fisher folk, hating that her name marked her as an incomer like her mor in ways Sorcha’s did not, Dagny had done all she could to maintain the divisions she imagined between herself and her younger sister until they were real. The more Sorcha learned about being a fishwife, the more Dagny rejected their ways; the closer Sorcha became to their da and their older brother Erik, the more Dagny withdrew until the distance between them was an unbridgeable chasm. When Dagny finally did what she had threatened to do for years and left the Weem, accepting the hand of a lad who worked on a laird’s estate outside St Andrew’s, the greatest emotion Sorcha felt was relief.
In the course of infrequent letters, written more out of a sense of duty than desire, over time Sorcha had begun to recast their relationship in a kinder light, remembering the moments when they’d behaved like normal sisters, not jealous enemies. She was even able to forgive Dagny’s absence from their mor’s burial, accepting her excuse that it was too hard to leave her children. That was why, after Andy and Davan died, when Dagny’s plea to help with the bairns when the new one was due arrived, Sorcha accepted. She wanted to believe her sister when she wrote that not only would Sorcha’s presence be a boon with a newborn, growing bairns and household tasks to manage, but it would be a chance for her to heal a sorrowful heart, put behind her the deaths of her husband and son and for the sisters to start afresh as well. For all Sorcha was frustrated by Dagny and failed to understand her, she loved her. She really did.
Nettie had warned her about going; so had other friends, especially wise old Janet Cornfoot. They knew Dagny and the spite that ran in her veins; how it boiled in Sorcha’s presence. But caught up in the romance of a reconciliation and a desire to help while mending the rent in their relationship, and to see if leaving the Weem would allow her to repair herself, Sorcha went.
Turned out Nettie and Janet were right and Dagny’s overtures of sisterly affection were short-lived. Not that Sorcha could blame her sister, after the way she had behaved with Kennocht.
She resumed her seat, filled with shame and regret at what she’d done, and refilled Nettie’s quaich.
‘As it was, I told Kennocht never to come near me again or I would tell Dagny what he was up to.’
Nettie grunted. ‘And what did he say?’
Sorcha took a swig, coughing as it bit the back of her throat. ‘First of all, he tried to persuade me with words. You know — how he’d always fancied me, said we’d be good together if it wasn’t for his wife and bairns (as if they were ill-fitting clothes he’d discard). How he knew I wanted him — the daft beast! I put him straight and told him I no more wanted him than I did the horse in the next stall who, I might add, was paying us a mite more attention than a mere animal should.’
Nettie chuckled. ‘That would have hurt his pride. Especially if it were a stallion you were comparing him to. No man’s tossel can compete with a stallion’s.’
Sorcha snorted. ‘Maybe that was the mistake I made. ’Twas indeed a stallion.’ Her laughter ceased as quickly as it began. ‘Anyhow, he did something I didn’t expect.’
Nettie waited.
‘He told Dagny.’
This time it was Nettie’s turn to choke. ‘He did what?’
Sorcha reached over and thumped Nettie’s back a few times. ‘Aye. He told my sister that I’d come upon him in the stables and begged him to take me. That I’d thrown myself at him like a moggy on heat. He said I claimed I’d been too long without a man.’
‘And she believed the arse?’
‘Of course she did. She feels and looks like a milch cow with babes hanging off her nugs and her body heavy, never mind she’s always wanted to believe the worst of me. Kennocht told me she’s too tired or waspish for bedding.’
‘What a prick.’
‘Aye, he had one of those. He may not have been a stallion, but it was a decent size all the same,’ said Sorcha. They burst into gales of laughter.
When it subsided and they replenished their half-drunk cups, Nettie shook her head. ‘And so ’twas Dagny sent you on your way.’
Sorcha took a deep shuddering breath. ‘And told me never to come back. That the devil could take me and I was as dead to her as our mor and da. As our Erik and Robbie.’ Sorch
a paused for a beat. ‘She said a great deal more than that as well.’ She chewed her lip a few times. ‘Something tells me it’s what she intended to happen all along. Not her husband, but sending me away. For good.’
Nettie reached over and took Sorcha’s hand, squeezing it hard. ‘I for one am beyond happy you’re home, lass. It’s not been the same without you.’
Sorcha pulled a face. ‘From the welcome I received and what I’ve no doubt Reverend Cowper will say when he hears I’m back, never mind if he learns the why of it, it appears things are exactly the same.’
She thought of the soldiers, their violence, their need. What was it one of them had said about Andy? Weren’t he the one who drowned because his wife didn’t carry him to the boat?
Seems that was how she was to be remembered — as the widow responsible for her husband’s death.
Not surprising, really, since it was the reverend who first accused her. When he did, she could scarce believe what she was hearing. It was the way of the fishwives to carry their husbands to their boats when they were fishing inshore so they didn’t board with wet boots and legs and thus fall sick, but Sorcha hadn’t carried Andy on his last trip. He’d stridden through the waves to the craft himself. Having lost her last three bairns early in pregnancy, neither she nor Andy wanted to risk the one that now quickened in her belly. It had been Andy’s decision and Sorcha was grateful for it.
She could still see him wading through the water, climbing on board, shouting he was fine. The other men had shaken their heads, regarding her with disapproval and touching whatever iron was to hand in an effort to counter any bad luck. Some of the fishwives had too. Only Nettie, Nicolas and Janet had stood by her that day, arms draped over her shoulders as they watched the boat carrying her husband row out of the harbour and into the Forth, where its sails would be raised.
