by Dee Yates
‘I’m so sorry,’ he gabbled. ‘I didnae see you there.’
‘I should hope not,’ she replied, laughing. ‘I didnae think you treated all of us with such a welcome. Who am I speaking to, anyway?’
‘Tam… I’m Tam. From the McColl Farm. Er… I don’t recognise you.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. I only arrived a week ago. Jeannie’s my name. I’m at Cunningham’s. I’m the new land girl.’
‘Och, aye. I heard he’d got some help.’ Tam smiled at her. ‘Well… um… nice to meet you.’ He hesitated, turned to go and then, in a flash of inspiration, swung back to face her. ‘I don’t know if you’re interested, but there’s a dance on Saturday. Would you like to come? It’s… er… it’s in the village hall.’
‘My, you’re a fast worker and no mistake. But aye, I might do that. Well, bye for now, Tam. I’ll maybe see you there then.’ And with a flick of her hair she disappeared inside.
*
It was not in Douglas McColl’s nature to praise his younger son, but even Tam could see that his father was impressed with the ewes. Tam had unloaded them into a pen for his father’s inspection and he watched his face carefully for any reaction.
His father nodded. ‘They’ll do. Let them out with the others, then come and have your tea.’
It was as much praise as he was likely to get.
Tam opened the far end of the pen and the sheep skittered out, almost falling over one another in their eagerness to be free. He released Holly from the wagon and walked her to the stable, rinsed down the sheep wagon and went to the side of the field into which he had unloaded the arrivals. He could tell them by the previous farmer’s identification mark. They were grazing serenely, mixing with the others, none the worse for their day’s ordeal.
The wind had eased and the solid sheet of grey cloud that had dulled midday into dusk had lifted, to be replaced with billows of white that raced each other across the heavens, parting at times to show a patch of blue. Tam leaned his elbows on the fence and allowed his gaze to follow the line of the valley eastward. It was there, only two miles or so distant, that Jeannie was staying on the Cunninghams’ farm. Jeannie, with whom he had fallen in love before even a word had been spoken.
*
Jeannie’s day at the market was an eye-opener indeed. She had never seen such a huge volume of sheep at such close quarters. She laughed at their antics as they tried to vault the auction ring and shook her head at the auctioneer’s sing-song selling patter, not a word of which she could understand. And then, when she went in search of Rob Cunningham, she finished up in the arms of Tam McColl. What had attracted her to him, she didn’t know. He wasn’t particularly good-looking, apart from a pair of very blue eyes and an infrequent smile, which, when it appeared, transformed his face. A man of few words certainly. Where other men would have made the most of the unforeseen encounter, he had been hesitant and tongue-tied, but then, just as he was retreating in embarrassment, he had invited her to the dance on Saturday.
An intriguing mixture of a man then, and a challenge she could not resist.
12. Discoveries
March 2002
When her name is finally on the deeds of the cottage, Liz can hardly believe it. She can’t move in yet, not when so much needs to be done, so she rents a nearby property and tries to discipline herself to stay away and let the builders get on with the improvements. But one day she answers the phone and Colin Anderson, the foreman, is on the end of the line.
‘Is there a problem?’ Liz asks hesitantly, hoping the answer will be in the negative.
‘No’ so much a problem, hen. We just wondered what you wanted done with the sacks of clothes in the loft.’
*
There are two of them. The men have found the sacks wedged in the narrow triangle between sloping roof and floor. Together, she and Colin Anderson edge along boards laid on top of the joists that form the framework for the ceiling of the living room. Put a foot wrong and they will have more than a floor in the attic to fix. The bags of clothes cascade down the metal ladder and send up clouds of dust as they hit the linoleum.
‘Are you sure you should be taking these, hen?’ Colin Anderson asks her, as they load the finds into the boot of her car.
‘What else would we do with them? I’ll probably finish up throwing them all away. I just need to make sure there’s nothing relevant to the cottage.’ Going through her mind is the possibility that she may find something to link with her mother or, at least, her mother’s photograph. ‘These things must have belonged to the old man who lived here,’ she goes on, ‘and everyone tells me that he’s no relatives.’ Liz has found out little more about the previous owner of her cottage and she has no desire to visit Neil Cunningham, who would, in any case, be unlikely to tell her more.
‘Aye, right enough.’ Colin Anderson slams shut the car door and Liz gives him a friendly wave and reverses out of the drive. By the time she gets back to the next village and her current lodgings, the car smells as musty and dank as the sacks themselves.
It’s clear that the hessian sacks have been attacked by the twin problems of damp and vermin. She had been informed of the leak between chimney and roof, a problem that has now been dealt with. But its legacy is apparent in the mouldering heap of garments when she empties out the first sack and spreads it on the protecting sheets of newspaper over the kitchen floor.
They are, for the most part, women’s clothes… dresses in a style and print reminiscent of pictures she has seen from the war years. She pulls out one in a dark material with an all-over design of small sprigs of unidentifiable flowers and spreads it out on the carpet. It is short-sleeved with a bodice gathered at the front into a high waist. The skirt is only slightly flared, frugal even. What is it they called the war style? Utilitarian, that was it. She can see from its size that the wearer must have been small and slim.
On a whim, Liz gets up and crosses quickly to a drawer, where she has stored for safety the photograph of her mother, but the dress does not match the one the girl is wearing, and neither do any of the others. Liz gathers up the decaying heap of frocks and bundles them back into the sack. They will go into the clothing bank for disposal.
There is only one man’s garment, a suit in a dark brown material. Although marred by the neglect of years, it looks as though it has hardly been worn. She adds it to the dresses.
When she tips out the contents of the second smaller bag, she gasps in surprise. Across the newspaper is scattered an assortment of baby clothes – nappies in muslin and towelling, tiny vests and nightdresses, knitted cardigans and hats. All are spoiled with mildew and damp, but what is clear is that they have never been used. They are brand new.
She hesitates, some primitive instinct telling her that to throw out these tiny garments would be thoughtless. Spreading them out on the newspaper, she leaves them to dry. She picks up a folded sheet of newspaper, damp and disintegrating, that has fallen out of the sack with the clothes and carefully prises apart the edges. Inside are two bits of paper, letters maybe. She flattens them out, but the ink has run and both are covered in mould. She can decipher only the odd word – ‘what is wrong’, ‘do anything’, ‘wishes’, ‘no need’. She almost throws them away but decides against it, putting the notes to one side, next to the tiny clothes.
She knows the importance of letters.
13. Meeting
September 1985–1988
She leaves work early that Thursday, arriving half an hour before the agreed appointment time. She drives on past his house, through the town; down-at-heel pubs and grey terraces fronting the road; belching chimneys and dusty factory gates; the heavy fumes of a hydrocarbon plant.
The town gives way abruptly to flat countryside decorated with purple willow herb. She pulls into a narrow country road, stops the car, watches the hands of the clock on the dashboard move too fast towards the hour. Liz is scared at the prospect of meeting such an auspicious person. The habitual hesitation and drying up of her though
ts will make her as unattractive as she has always known herself to be.
The man who opens the door to her is tall, over six feet, well-built, imposing, with dark curly hair and a close beard.
‘Hello. You must be Liz.’ He smiles and the corners of his eyes crease into crows’ feet. His voice has the hint of an accent that she cannot at first place. It’s not local. ‘I’m David. Come on through to the living room. I’ll make some tea. How do you like it?’
‘Milk, no sugar, please.’ She smiles. While he is gone, her eyes take in the normal clutter of this ordinary room – books, records, videos, photos, an illuminated fish tank. Similar to her own home in fact. What else did she expect?
In no time at all he is back.
‘Thanks.’ She takes the steaming mug and puts it on the table in front of her.
‘Are you enjoying the course?’
‘Well, we’ve only had three Saturdays so far… but it’s really good… exciting. It makes me think, rather than just accept everything I was taught as a child.’ Liz pauses. ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage with the essays though. It’s ages since I wrote an essay… and they never were my strong point! We had to churn out facts, rather than come up with a work of literature.’
‘You’re a nurse, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m attached to the local surgery. I’m not full-time but, even so, with the family…’
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Two – a girl and a boy. There’s only Rebecca at home now. Tim’s at university.’
‘We’ve one at university as well. Caroline’s at Cambridge. Lydia’s still at home, doing her A levels.’ He gives a rueful smile. ‘I don’t know who’ll be more glad when next summer is here and she can put them behind her.’
‘And go to university?’
‘Oh yes, though not Cambridge. She doesn’t want to be near her sister.’ They laugh. Behind them the fish tank murmurs soothingly.
The door opens abruptly and his wife is there, just in from work. In time, Liz will become used to these regular interruptions. It is as though she is checking up on him… or her.
‘Liz, this is my wife, Nicola. Nicola teaches at the high school.’
Liz smiles and Nicola murmurs a welcome. There is an awkward pause and she is gone.
‘Well, I’d better tell you a bit about what we’re supposed to do. The requirement is three essays for each part of the course. You can do more if you wish, though I doubt you’ll have time. We could maybe discuss one or two of the other titles here in our tutorials. What I suggest is that you look through the list and think about what you’d like to start with… one of the essays on the Old Testament prophets, maybe. We’ll discuss it next time you come. How often would you like to meet?’
‘It’s up to you.’ Her mind reels at the thought of even one essay. It is years since she has had such an assignment.
He laughs. ‘Well, let’s say every two weeks. Less often than that and we won’t get the work done. More often won’t give you time to complete each essay, nice though it would be for me!’
They finish their tea and she turns to examine the fish, while he gives her a commentary on their names and habits. At last, she gathers together her file of papers and reclaims her jacket from the back of the chair. When she leaves, she glances behind her as she turns out of the drive. He is still standing at the porch watching the car retreat into the distance.
Thus is set the pattern for each meeting. A fortnight later, after the preliminaries, of which there are many, they settle to a perusal of the essay questions. Together they consider the possibilities and she chooses a title. She will read around the subject, prepare the essay and bring it on the next occasion. It won’t be easy, finding the time to study, so she resolves to rise early and take advantage of an hour uninterrupted by family obligations.
He talks about his job, the folk he meets from day to day, but she always feels as she knew she would – unable to express herself, words slow to flow. But this is no different from how she has always been in company. In time, however, the awkwardness decreases a little. They become friends, in a distant, undemonstrative kind of way. He the lofty moral man, existing in a different sphere. That is how she sees him anyway. Maybe that’s how such men like to be seen.
‘We’ll go in here today,’ he says to her on one occasion, holding open the door to a room in the back of the house. They’ve been meeting for more than a year now and she struggles less now with the essays than she used to do. ‘I must get round to tidying,’ he says, by way of apology, as they enter the study. He bends to remove piles of correspondence from the settee to allow her space to sit. The letters join an unsteady pile on the carpet. Behind her, the burbling fish tank has been replaced by a tall bookcase, grey with dust and cluttered with unevenly stacked volumes. He switches the telephone onto the recorded message, so they will not be disturbed. The room lends itself to confidences.
‘I’ve had a number of bouts of depression myself,’ he says later in the afternoon. His words come as a surprise to her, both the fact of it being a problem and its acknowledgement. But, on reflection, perhaps it is only natural that he should unburden himself to her. She is, after all, a nurse. Perhaps he senses that years of listening to patients has made her a good listener.
She is at a loss how to reply. ‘Your job must be very draining,’ she says. ‘All things to all people.’ It provides the opening he needs.
In time, she talks a little about her own problems.
*
He sits in his study staring out of the window at the empty bird feeder as it blows to and fro on a scrubby bush. Across the unmowed grass, crisp packets spiral with sweet wrappers and come to rest in the flower bed. A crushed cigarette box thrown over the low wall proclaims ‘SMOKING CAN SERIOUSLY DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH’. He is oblivious to all these signs that summer is here again, the folk of the town out and about and filling the streets with litter. He can think only that this will be the last occasion that Liz will be calling to see him. He can’t understand how the last three years can have come to an end so quickly.
‘Thank you for all you’ve taught me,’ she says, when she leaves. She has stepped onto the path and, on the doorstep, he is head and shoulders above her.
‘I shall miss our meetings.’ He smiles at her to disguise his wretchedness. Desperately he tries to think of words to delay her departure.
‘I’ve bought you a little present.’ She pushes a slim book, carefully wrapped, in his direction. He takes it, staring at the neat gold pattern of the paper. A moment’s hesitation and she stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek. His heart leaps, but, before he can respond, she hurries to the car like a startled rabbit. The engine revs and she sets off out of the drive, scattering pebbles. At the gate, she turns and gives a tentative wave. He lifts his hand in reply and it hangs in the air like a blessing until she has pulled out into the traffic and disappeared round the corner.
‘Your tea’s ready.’ Nicola’s voice calls from the kitchen.
Still he stands at the open door.
‘Did you hear me? Tea’s ready.’ The words are sharper now.
He steps back into the house and the wind snatches at the door and slams it shut.
‘I’ll be through in a minute,’ he growls. Turning, he steps into his study and shuts the door quietly behind him. He sits down at his desk and sets the small package in front of him, staring at it for a minute. Carefully, he slits open the golden paper. Inside is a book of poems. On the front page she has written:
With grateful thanks for three very happy years. I hope you enjoy the poems as much as I have enjoyed our meetings. With very best wishes, Liz.
*
Dear Liz,
Thank you so much for your kind gift of the poetry. To have the poems in such a handy volume is very good.
I have enjoyed our tutorials and the discussions we have had. Our meetings have been a great help to me.
I value our friendship v
ery much.
Yours ever,
David.
She shares his sentiments about the poetry, but it comes as no little surprise that she has helped him.
The three years have been an oasis. Now, for reasons she cannot understand, she finds herself back in the desert.
14. Two Years
October 1990
In the two years after Liz’s tutorial, there are a mere handful of encounters. The visits are a fading memory.
He sends a postcard from the West Country, soon after their last meeting; he is there on holiday with his family.
A year later, he attends a church service in support of another whom he has tutored. The church crouches in a steep-sided valley, rough moorland spreading away to the horizon. He knows the area well as he has worked in the vicinity for a number of years, soon after his own training was completed. He is thinking of Liz as he drives along the valley. Will she be at the service? He cannot keep at bay the excitement brought on by this possibility. The feeling is familiar. It is no different from how he felt before each of her fortnightly visits.
Cursing the plans he has made to call in for tea with friends in a neighbouring village, he nears the church. If it had not been for this invitation, he might have telephoned and offered her a lift.
His heart jumps as he enters the dim interior of the building. She is there, sitting near the front. He identifies her immediately by the cloud of white hair that he has always loved. He has no idea if she has seen him. From his vantage point several rows back, he can look at her as much as he wishes without it being obvious. And he will make sure that he gets out of the building as soon as the service is over, so that he can intercept her as she leaves.
But by the time he negotiates his way through the throng of colleagues and acquaintances anxious to speak to him, she is nowhere to be seen. Cursing again this missed opportunity to speak to her, David stands irresolute. But, amazingly, there she is, walking along the road towards him.
