by Dee Yates
Placing the box on the kitchen table, Douglas stepped across the room to his wife. He planted a kiss on Nessie’s cold cheek before holding out his palms towards the half-hearted warmth of the peat fire and giving a deep sigh.
‘The minister says he can do the funeral the day after tomorrow. He’s burying old Finlay Blacklock in the morning, so it will have to be in the afternoon.’ He paused. ‘That’s if this snow doesn’t get worse. It’s taken me all day to get down to the village and back.’
‘And what’ll we do if the snow is too bad?’ His wife’s voice rose in alarm. ‘God knows I don’t want to think of her in the cold earth, but I cannae abide seeing her white face and feeling her wee cold hands every time I go in the room.’ Her face creased and tears rolled down her weathered cheeks.
Tam looked on silently from the corner where he had been stacking Alan’s wooden soldiers in rows. An hour earlier, while his mother was filling the empty bucket with dry rolls of peat, he had crept into his parents’ room to see if he could wake his sister up and persuade her to come and play with him. She was so fast asleep that she didn’t stir at his touch, nor put her thumb to her mouth as she always did, though her mother was always telling her she shouldn’t. And his mum was right – her hands had been cold, colder than when they had been playing outside in the field on bright days when the sun saw fit to shine.
His mum had come in then when she saw that the bedroom door was open. She had started to scold him, but the tears had come again and she clasped him to her apron and hugged him until he too had started to cry at the strangeness of it all.
‘Och, it’ll no come to that, hen.’ Douglas said reassuringly. 'You see, the snow will be away in a couple of days. We’ll be able to bury our wee Elizabeth yet.’
Tam listened in horror. What was his father saying? Bury Elizabeth? He didn't understand any of it. He ran into the bedroom and hid under the bed. Here, at least, it felt safe.
But the snow didn’t go away. Instead it just kept on snowing. By the planned day of Elizabeth’s funeral, it lay two feet deep on the ground and deeper where the wind had heaped it into strange creatures against the walls of the cottage and the barn. The moors, when Tam climbed up to the window to look out, were unrecognisable.
‘Dinnae fret,’ Douglas said to his wife. ‘The reverend and I had agreed that if it got worse, the funeral would have to be postponed. There’s nothing for it but to wait.’
‘But we can’t leave her like this. Her body… her b—’ Nessie put her hands to her face.
‘She’ll be all right. It’s gey cold. She’ll not come to any harm.’
Tam bent miserably over his toys. He couldn’t understand it. Surely it wasn’t right for his wee sister to be so cold and alone. And she had had nothing to eat for three days. He just couldn’t understand it. And he missed her dreadfully.
A further three days passed before they could bury Elizabeth, his sister, time that Tam's father spent on the hills digging sheep out from the snowdrifts. Most had survived, thanks to his father’s quick intervention.
It was not thought right for Tam and his brother to attend the funeral. Instead Douglas took him and his brother to stay with the same Morag Murray who had looked after Alan on the day that his father went to get the box. But they did take the two brothers in to see their sister one last time. Tam dragged his heels. All he wanted was for his baby sister to be as she was before.
His mother had dressed Elizabeth in a long white gown. The box was lined with something white and frilly. She didn’t look like his sister any more. She looked like a doll, one that might have been given to Elizabeth, had she lived long enough. His mother held his hand. He hung back, not wanting to be there. The air was stale and there was a strange unhealthy smell. He had been going to touch his sister’s hand, her cheek maybe, as he had before, but now he backed away, fearful, wanting to be out of the room and its cloying odour. He took one last look at his baby sister, then turned and ran.
8. The Moors
1920–28
Why didn’t his mother have another baby girl? It would solve everything if she did, Tam thought several times a day. It would replace the wee playmate who he missed so much that it hurt every time he pulled one of her favourite toys out of the basket kept in the corner behind his father’s chair. And it would surely stop his mother being so sad. He watched her closely, making sure that she wasn’t left alone to do her chores. He followed her into the barn as the days lengthened into summer and she checked the fostered lambs and their mothers to judge if they were strong enough to be put out onto the moor. He stood on the step while she struggled against the wind to peg clothes on the washing line. His eyes scanned the hillside looking for his father. It was only on his return that Tam felt able to leave his mother and go off to play on his own. But his father seldom came home until late in the evening, for the sheep roamed far and wide and underfoot the ground was boggy and uneven.
Alan had been at school for the last year and a half. He was acting very grown up, or so it seemed. He had made new friends and they met up on their way to school and walked back together until the tracks parted and they went their several ways back to their cottages in the hills. It was fortunate that Morag Murray’s youngest son had started at the same time as Alan and for the first months Morag called for him and they walked, the three of them, the long distance to school. But later, when she was needed on the farm, the lads walked together, tackling moor and weather, for both could be hostile and unwelcoming.
Tam was used to Alan’s absence, but then there had always been Elizabeth. Even when she was tiny, he would help his mother to wash and dress her. He would rock her cradle to send her to sleep. And as she became older, he would take her by the hand and together they would explore the rough plot of land outside the door, that passed for a garden. Then, if Joe the border collie wasn’t out with their father, they would make their way to the barn where the dog would be sprawled across the doorway taking a nap. He would raise a weary eyebrow to look at the two children, knowing that his few minutes of rest was at an end.
It troubled Tam that he might have been the reason for his sister getting sick. After all, he was the one who looked after her. His mother would often send them off with the words ‘Take your sister outside and play with her, Tam, but mind you don’t go beyond the fence.’ And he hadn’t gone beyond the fence, but he hadn’t always looked after her as well as he might have done. Once she wandered into the lambing shed and he found her in among the newborn lambs. Another time he caught her drinking out of the dog’s bowl. She hadn’t seemed to suffer as a result of her escapades, but maybe there was something she had done which he should have known about but didn’t.
His constant hope, that his mother would have another baby girl, someone to look after and to be a playmate, didn’t seem to be coming to pass. Another winter came and went, this one not as snowy as the last. And then he was five – and it was time for him to go to school.
He thought that he wasn’t going to like school. His brother wanted as little to do with him as possible and he trailed behind him and his playmates on the long journey across the moor, feeling very alone. Most of the other children preferred playing with his older brother, who always seemed to be the centre of attention. In time, though, he began to enjoy the walk. From the day he started school, he knew always to follow the path of the river. That way, however long it took him, he knew he would eventually reach his destination.
Some days the rain didn’t stop and the river, which could be tinkling over the stones in the morning, would be roaring and ugly when the time came to pack up their books and set off for home. One time the teacher kept them late, hoping that the rain would stop and the river level drop, but it didn’t, and in the end she had to let them go in conditions that had only got worse.
As time went on and Tam grew, he got to know every inch of the journey and the wider moors. Even so, he knew never to be complacent, for the weather and the terrain could always get the better of h
im.
Living with his family out on the moors, Tam had mixed only infrequently with the other shepherds' and farmers' children. It took some time to adjust to a class of twenty-six children of assorted ages and abilities. The teacher was strict and spoke to him severely if he wasn’t concentrating. At first he found this difficult, but soon he began to enjoy the lessons. His teacher, he realised, was fair. She was cross if the children didn’t concentrate but praised every attempt to learn what she tried to teach them.
As time passed, he found himself pulled between the willingness to learn and his father’s need for him to help on the farm, and Douglas kept his sons off school if he needed extra help with the sheep, especially at lambing and clipping time. It wasn’t really allowed, but many of the parents did the same. There were other jobs too that the cottage children were required to lend a hand with – potato lifting, turnip thinning, cutting peat. The land that Douglas tended wasn’t good enough for potatoes and turnips, except in the little patch they called a garden, but the sheep were numbered in their hundreds and were scattered far over the moor. Sturdy legs were needed at certain times of the year, together with well-trained and reliable dogs. His father, always a quiet man, had become even more silent since the death of his only daughter. Tam, however, relished the opportunity to help in this way. If only his little sister were by his side, he would have enjoyed it even more.
*
On a day in mid April, when the sky was blue and clouds bunched on the horizon behind the rounded treeless hills, Tam was making his way home across the moor. Two buzzards circled lazily in the distance, their mewing calls echoing across the valley. Tam slowed his step, squinting up at the brightness. He loved this kind of day, all the more for it being so rare. The thought came to him then that this is what he would describe for the school writing competition. They had one set each year by the teacher and a prize was being awarded by the important man in the ‘Big Hoose’ down in the village.
A clutch of boys had gathered in the playground at lunchtime. ‘I’m no’ entering. It’s cissy stuff,’ came Jimmy Murray’s terse rebuttal of his teacher’s idea.
‘Aye. I’m with you… though there could be a good prize for the best one at the end of it,’ another of the boys said, and others agreed with him. Tam, who was standing on the edge of the group, had looked away, his eyes settling on the bare outlines of the hills, amongst which patches of lingering snow could still be seen. There goes my chance of winning the prize, he thought. One or other of the boys, but not himself, would be bound to win.
Now though, Tam looked at the view again and decided that the winning didn’t matter. He would write anyway. He enjoyed writing about the moors and the birds he saw there. Sometimes he went off into the hills or down to the river with pencil and paper when there was nothing left to do on the farm. There, uncluttered by people or tasks, he would invent stories about his surroundings and the people who lived there. He kept the stories in an old metal box in a corner of the hay barn where no one would ever find them.
In the distance, the farm came into view. His father would be in the barn, getting ready for the lambing, which would start any time now. His mother would no doubt be in the house, making soup or baking shortbread, for there would be little time once lambing was underway. He swung his legs over the gate and jumped down, taking the last few yards at a run.
There was no one in the kitchen of the cottage. He threw his school bag onto a chair, investigated one of three tins lined up on the cupboard shelf and helped himself to a couple of pieces of shortbread. He had reached the age of twelve and was always hungry, growing fast, though, from all appearances, he would never be the tall, good-looking, smooth-talking lad that his brother was turning out to be. Alan, at fourteen, had just left school and was helping his father full-time with the sheep. The contrast between the two brothers seemed wider than ever.
His mother looked up as he entered the barn. She was kneeling in a bed of straw in one of the pens, trying to persuade a lamb to suckle. Draped over the lamb was the bloodied fleece of another lamb that had died. His mother was hoping to convince the ewe that the lamb was her own offspring. Tam watched as his mother coaxed the lamb towards the ewe’s belly. The ewe sniffed the fleece and, duly persuaded, let the lamb fasten and begin to suckle.
‘There! A successful start.’ She looked up at Tam and smiled.
‘I didnae expect to see this when I got home. I thought it would be tomorrow at least.’
‘Och, there’s always a couple of surprises. It’s just fortunate that this ewe was needing a lamb, having lost hers.’ Her smile faded and she gave the mother and baby a last look, before getting up with a sigh. ‘How was your day?’
Tam shrugged. ‘Same as usual.’ He went over to his mother and put his arm round her shoulders. ‘How was your day? You know I’d rather be here with you, don’t you?’ Since his sister's death, Tam had always been conscious of the void in his mother's life.
His mother’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You’re a dear boy,’ she mumbled. ‘But you mustn’t go worrying about me. You’ve got your life to lead. You’re growing up now. They say there’s a world out there waiting to be explored.’
‘As for that, Mother, all I want is here. I just wish I could make you happy again.’
‘You do, Tam. And I am. Really.’
‘Oh, you’re here,’ came a gruff voice from outside the barn door. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to. Your brother needs a hand in the lambing shed.’ Douglas stepped into the barn and looked from his son to his wife. ‘How’s it going in here?’
‘All right, Douglas. She’s accepted the lamb. I’ll leave them to it.’ Nessie turned away and walked off in the direction of the cottage.
Douglas sighed. ‘Anyway, son, you better go and help your brother. It’s going to be non-stop for the next few weeks. That teacher of yours will have to do without you and your brains for a while.’
Tam glanced at his father, then turned on his heel and hurried in the direction of the lambing shed. Not for the first time he felt wounded by his father's unfeeling words, when all he was doing was trying to look after both his parents and make them happy again.
9. Snow
February 1933
Tam woke with a start. Wind was buffeting the walls of the cottage. An eerie light filtered through the naked windows. He pulled the covers back and, swinging his legs out of bed, crossed the room.
It must have been snowing for hours. Snowflakes were being blown horizontal by the gale. Drifts obscured the fence posts and lay halfway up the barn. It was a changed landscape.
Tam gave his brother a shake before pulling on his shirt and trousers and shrugging his shoulders into a warm jacket.
‘What’s up?’ Alan muttered, turning over in bed.
‘It’s snowing. It looks bad.’
Alan groaned and sat up, blinking away sleep. ‘And there I was hoping for a lie-in so I’m on good form for tomorrow night’s dance.’ He rolled out of bed and came to stand next to his brother at the window. He cursed. ‘Well, that’s an end to that. Dad will be wanting us out there.’
They heard the door slam and a second later saw their father, bent into the wind and making his way to the barn.
‘We better get after him,’ said Tam. ‘I’ll go on. You follow when you’re ready.’
His mother was in the kitchen, lifting a hot kettle off the fire that flared in the grate. She looked up half-guiltily as he entered. On the floor next to her seat was a small box containing an assortment of baby clothes and the unmistakable toys that had been Elizabeth’s.
It was that time of the year again.
‘Your father’s gone out to see to the sheep. You’ll have a cup of tea before you go to help him?’
‘Aye. Alan’s coming too. We saw Father go across the yard.’
They were soon wrapped up in their warmest clothes. As Alan opened the door, he was met by an inrush of snowflakes.
'You'll be careful, won't you?' their mot
her said. Tam heard the catch in her voice and turned to her with a smile. ‘We'll be careful. You’ll be all right on your own?’
‘Of course. I’ll go out to the barn and prepare some feed for any of the sheep that need to be brought in. There’ll be soup on, to warm you when you get back. You be careful now… all of yous.’
It was worse than anything the boys, or for that matter their father, could remember. The hills were an undulating sheet of snow. Deep drifts had obliterated the windows at the back of the cottage. Every fence post was outlined in white, and every outhouse had several feet of snow stacked against it. Snow swirled in the wind like smoke. They had stepped into another world.
Douglas had decided that he would go westward along the path of the river. He knew the places that the sheep would have gathered for shelter from the storm. Once he found some, he would clear an area of grass, poor though it was at this time of the year when spring had not yet started to stimulate growth of fresh shoots. He armed the boys with shovels and told them to head for the hills behind the cottage. There would be many sheep stranded in those higher nooks and crannies of the moors and unable to find better shelter.
