Then up the road came the wife of the grave-digger, Garthmore, him that had buried father. Sore made as always she was, poor thing, they’d asked her to come and lend them a hand more out of pity then anything else; and when the three sat down to dinner she said Eh, me! it’s fine to be young and be married, and maybe he’ll treat you all right, but mine, my first man, him that’s now dead, God! he was a fair bull of a man and not only the first night, either. He was aye at it, near deaved me to death he would if he hadn’t fallen over the edge of a quarry on the road from the feeing-market some nine-ten years come Martinmas. But Mistress Melon said, Havers, are you trying to frighten the lass? She’ll be fine, her lad’s both blithe and kind; and Chris loved her for that, she’d never seemed to see and know Mistress Melon before, thinking her just a hard-working, hard-gossiping old body, now she saw the kindliness of her shine out, her gossiping no more than the dreams she aye dreamt and must tell to others. And then Mistress Melon cried Away and get into your dress now, Chris, before the folk come up.
It had left off snowing, Chris, dressing, saw from her window, a sunless day; and a great patching of clouds was upon the sky, the light below bright and sharp, flung by the snow itself; and the smoke rose straight in the air. Far over the braes by Upperhill where Ewan would be getting set in his clothes—unless he’d done that long before in the morning—the sheep were baaing in their winter buchts. Then Chris took off her clothes, and stood white again, and put on the wedding things, mother’d have like to see them, mother lying dead and forgotten in Kinraddie kirkyard with the twins beside her. She found herself weep then, slowly, hardly, lost and desolate a moment without mother on her marriage-day. And then she shook her head, Oh, don’t be a fool, do you want to look a fright before Ewan and the folk?
She peered at her face in the glass, then, fine! her eyes were bright, the crying had helped them. Pretty in a way, not only good-looking, she saw herself, dour cheek-bones softened for the hour in their chilled bronze setting. And she combed out her hair, it came far past her middle, thick and soft and sweet-smelling and rusty and tarnished gold. Then last was her dress, blue also, but darker than her underclothes because so short was the time since father had died, she threaded the neck with a narrow black ribbon but round her own neck put nothing, her skin was the guerdon there.
So, ready, she turned herself round a minute, and held back the skirt from her ankles and liked them, they were neat and round, she had comely bones, her feet looked long and lithe in the black silk stockings and shoes. She found herself a hanky, last, and sprinkled some scent in that, only a little; and hid it away in her breast and went down the stairs just as she heard the first gig drive up.
That was the Strachans from Peesie’s Knapp, Mistress Strachan fell long in the face at first. But Chae soon kindled her up with a dram, he whispered to Chris that he’d look after the drink; and Mistress Melon said it was aye best to have a man body at that end of the stir. And before they could say much more there came a fair stream of traffic up from the turnpike, all Kinraddie seemed on the move to Blawearie: except the old folk from Netherhill, and they sent their kind wishes and two clucking hens for Chris’s nests. The hens broke the ice, you might say, for they got themselves loose from the gig of the Netherhill folk and started a wild flutter and chirawk everywhere, anywhere out of Blawearie. Long Rob of the Mill was coming up the road at that minute, in his Sunday best, and he met the first hen and heard the cry-out that followed her, and he cried himself, Shoo, you bitch! The hen dodged into the ditch, but Rob was after her, grabbing her, she squawked fair piercing as he carried her up to the house, his fine Sunday coat was lathered with snow; and he said that such-like work would have been nothing to Chae, who had chased the bit ostriches out in the Transvaal, but he’d had no training himself. Syne he took up the dram that Chae had poured him and cried Here’s to the bonniest maid Kinraddie will mind for many a year!
That was kind of him, Chris had been cool and quiet enough until then, but she blushed at that, seeing Rob stand like a Viking out of the picture-books with the iron-grey glint in his eyes. Mistress Munro, though, was right sore jealous as usual, she poked her nose in the air and said, and not over-low, The great fool might wait for the tea before he starts his speechifying; she was maybe mad that nobody had ever said she was bonny; or if anybody ever had, he was an uncommon liar.
Then the Bridge End folk came up, then Ellison and his wife and their daughter, and then the Gordons, and then the minister, riding on his bicycle, it looked as though he’d had a fall or two and he wasn’t in the best of temper, he wouldn’t have a dram, No, thank you, Chae, he said, real stiff-like. And when Rob gave him a sly bit look, You’ve been communing with Mother Earth, I see, Mr Gibbon, he just turned his back and made out he didn’t hear, and folk looked fair uncomfortable, all except Long Rob himself and Chae, they winked one at the other and then at Chris.
She thought the minister a fusionless fool, and went to the door to see who else was coming; and there, would you believe it, was poor old Pooty toiling up through the drifts with a great parcel under his oxter, his old face was white with snow and he shivered and hoasted as he came in, peeking out below his old, worn brows for Chris. Where’s the bit lllllass? he cried, and then saw her and put the parcel in her hands, and she opened it then, as the custom was, and in it lay a fine pair of shoes he had made for her, shoes of glistening leather with gay green soles, and a pair of slippers, soft-lined with wool, there wouldn’t be a grander pair in Kinraddie. And she said Oh, thank you, and she knew that wasn’t enough, he stood peering up at her like an old hen peers, she didn’t know why she did it but she put her arms round him and kissed him, folk laughed at that, all but the two of them, Pooty blinked and stuttered till Long Rob reached out a hand and pulled him into a chair and cried Wet your whistle with this, Pooty man, you’ve hardly a minute ere the wedding begins.
And he was right, for up the road came walking the last two, Εwan and his best man, the Highlander McIvor, near six feet six, red-headed, red-faced, a red Highlandman that bowed so low to Chris that she felt a fool; and presented his present, and it was a ram’s horn shod with silver, real bonny and unco, like all Highland things. But Ewan took never a look at Chris, they made out they didn’t see one the other, and Mistress Melon whispered to her to go tidy her hair, and when she came down again all the place was quiet, there was hardly a murmur. She stopped at the foot of the stairs with the heart beating so against her skin it was like to burst from her breast; and there was Chae Strachan waiting her, he held out his arm and patted her hand when she laid it on his arm, and he whispered Ready then, Chris?
Then he opened the parlour door, the place was crowded, there were all the folk sitting in chairs, solemn as a kirk congregation, and over by the window stood the Reverend Gibbon, very stern and more like a curly bull than ever; and in front of him waited Ewan and his best man, McIvor. Chris had for bridesmaids the little Ellison girl and Maggie Jean Gordon, they joined with her, she couldn’t see clear for a minute then, or maybe too clear, she didn’t seem to be seeing with her own eyes at all. And then Chae had loosed her hand from his arm and she and Ewan stood side by side, he was wearing a new suit, tweed it was, and smelt lovely, his dark face was solemn and frightened and white, he stood close to her, she knew him more frightened than she was herself. Something of her own fear went from her then, she stood listening to the Reverend Gibbon and the words he was reading, words that she’d never heard before, this was the first marriage she’d ever been at.
And then she heard Chae whisper behind her and listened more carefully still, and heard Ewan say I will, in a desperate kind of a voice, and then said it herself, her voice was as happy and clear as well you’d have wished, she smiled up at Ewan, the white went from his face and the red came in spate. The Red Highlander behind slipped something forward, she saw it was the ring, and then Ewan fitted it over her finger, his fingers were hot and unsteady, and Mr Gibbon closed his eyes and said, Let us pray.
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sp; And Chris held on to Ewan’s hand and bent her head and listened to him, the minister; and he asked God to bless their union, to give them courage and strength for the difficulties that the years might bring to them, to make fruitful their marriage and their love as pure and enduring in its fulfilment as in its conception. They were lovely words, words like the marching of a bronze-leafed beech on the lips of a summer sky. So Chris thought, her head down-bent and her hand in Ewan’s, then she lost the thread that the words were strung on, because of that hand of Ewan’s that still held hers; and she curved her little finger into his palm, it was hard and rough there and she tickled the skin, secretly, and his hand quivered and she took the littlest keek at his face. There was that smile of his, flitting like a startled cat; and then his hand closed firm and warm and sure on hers, and hers lay quiet: in his, and the minister had finished and was shaking their hands.
He hesitated a minute and then bent to kiss Chris; close to hers she saw his face older far than when he came to Kinraddie, there were pouches under his eyes, and a weary look in his eyes, and his kiss she didn’t like. Ewan’s was a peck, but Chae’s was fine, it was hearty and kind though he reeked of the awful tobacco he smoked, and then Long Rob’s, it was clean and sweet and dry, like a whiff from the Mill itself; and then it seemed every soul in Kinraddie was kissing her, except only Tony, the daftie, he’d been left at home. Everybody was speaking and laughing and slapping Ewan on the back and coming to kiss her, those that knew her well and some that didn’t. And last it was Mistress Melon, her eyes were over bright but careful still, she nearly smothered Chris and then whispered Up to your room and tidy yourself, they’ve messed your hair.
She escaped them then, the folk trooped out to the kitchen where the fire was roaring, Chae passed round the drams again, there was port for the women if they wanted it and raspberry drinks for the children. Soon’s the parlour was clear Mistress Melon and Mistress Garthmore had the chairs whisked aside, the tables put forward and the cloths spread; and there came a loud tinkling as they spread the supper, barely past three though it was. But Chris knew it fell likely that few had eaten much at their dinners in Kinraddie that day, there wouldn’t have been much sense with a marriage in prospect: and as soon as they’d something solid in their bellies to foundation the drink, as a man might say, the better it would be. In her room that wouldn’t be her room for long Chris brushed her hair and settled her dress and looked at her flushed, fair face, it was nearly the same, hard to believe though you thought it. And then something felt queer about her, the ring on her hand it was, she stood and stared at the thing till a soft bit whispering drew her eyes to the window, the snow had come on again, a scurry and a blinding drive from down the hills; and below in the house they were crying The bride, where is she?
So down she went, folk had trooped back in the parlour by then and were sitting them round the tables, the minister at the head of one, Long Rob at the head of another, in the centre one the wedding cake stood tall on its stand with the Highland dirk beside it that Ewan had gotten from McIvor to do the cutting. The wind had risen storming without as Chris stood to cut, there in her blue frock with the long, loose sleeves, there came a great whoom in the chimney and some looked out at the window and said that the drifts would be a fell feet deep by the morn. And then the cake was cut and Chris sat down, Ewan beside her, and found she wasn’t hungry at all, about the only soul in the place that wasn’t, everybody else was taking a fair hearty meal.
The minister had thawed away by then, he was laughing real friendly-like in his bull-like boom of a voice, telling of other weddings he’d made in his time, they’d all been gey funny and queer-like weddings, things that you laughed at, not fine like this. And Chris listened and glowed with pride that everything at hers was just and right; and then again as so often that qualm of doubt came down on her, separating her away from these kindly folk of the farms—kind, and aye ready to believe the worst of others they heard, unbelieving that others could think the same of themselves. So maybe the minister no more than buttered her, she looked at him with the dark, cool doubt in her face, next instant forgot him in a glow of remembrance that blinded all else: she was married to Ewan!
Beside her: He whispered Oh, eat something, Chris, you’ll fair go famished, and she tried some ham and a bit of the dumpling, sugared and fine, that Mistress Melon had made. And everybody praised it, as well they might, and cried for more helpings, and more cups of tea, and there were scones and pancakes and soda-cakes and cakes made with honey that everybody ate; and little Wat Strachan stopped eating of a sudden and cried Mother, I’m not right in the belly! everybody laughed at that but Kirsty, she jumped to her feet and hurried him out, and came back with him with his face real frightened. But faith! it didn’t put a stop to the bairn, he started in again as hungry as ever, and Chae cried out Well, well, let him be, maybe it tasted as fine coming up as it did going down!
Some laughed at that, others reddened up and looked real affronted, Chris herself didn’t care. Cuddiestoun and his wife sat opposite her, it was like watching a meikle collie and a futret at meat, him gulping down everything that came his way and a lot that didn’t, he would rax for that; and his ugly face, poor stock, fair shone and glimmered with the exercise. But Mistress Munro snapped down at her plate with sharp, quick teeth, her head never still a minute, just like a futret with a dog nearby. They were saying hardly anything, so busied they were, but Ellison next to them had plenty to say, he’d taken a dram over much already and was crying things across the table to Chris, Mistress Tavendale he called her at every turn; and he said that she and Mistress Ellison must get better acquaint. Maybe he’d regret that the morn, if he minded his promise: and that wasn’t likely. Next to him was Kirsty and the boys and next to that the minister’s table with Alec Mutch and his folk and young Gordon; a real minister’s man was Alec, awful chief-like the two of them were, but Mistress Mutch sat lazy as ever, now and then she cast a bit look at Chris out of the lazy, gley eyes of her, maybe there was a funniness in the look that hadn’t to do with the squint.
Up at Rob’s table an argument rose, Chris hoped that it wasn’t religion, she saw Mr Gordon’s wee face pecked up to counter Rob. But Rob was just saying what a shame it was that folk should be shamed nowadays to speak Scotch—or they called it Scots if they did, the split-tongued sourocks! Every damned little narrow-dowped rat that you met put on the English if he thought he’d impress you—as though Scotch wasn’t good enough now, it had words in it that the thin bit scraichs of the English could never come at. And Rob said You can tell me, man, what’s the English for sotter, or greip, or smore, or pleiter, gloaming or glunching or well-kenspeckled? And if you said gloaming was sunset you’d fair be a liar; and you’re hardly that, Mr Gordon.
But Gordon was real decent and reasonable, You can’t help it, Rob. If folk are to get on in the world nowadays, away from the ploughshafts and out of the pleiter, they must use the English, orra though it be. And Chae cried out that was right enough, and God! who could you blame? And a fair bit breeze got up about it all, every soul in the parlour seemed speaking at once; and as aye when they spoke of the thing they agreed that the land was a coarse, coarse life, you’d do better at almost anything else, folks that could send their lads to learn a trade were right wise, no doubt of that, there was nothing on the land but work, work, work, and chave, chave, chave, from the blink of day till the fall of night, no thanks from the soss and sotter, and hardly a living to be made.
Syne Cuddiestoun said that he’d heard of a childe up Laurencekirk way, a banker’s son from the town he was, and he’d come to do farming in a scientific way. So he’d said at first, had the childe, but God! by now you could hardly get into the place for the clutter of machines that lay in the yard; and he wouldn’t store the kiln long. But Chae wouldn’t have that, he swore Damn’t, no, the machine’s the best friend of man, or it would be so in a socialist state. It’s coming and the chaving’ll end, you’ll see, the machine’ll do all the di
rty work. And Long Rob called out that he’d like right well to see the damned machine that would muck you a pigsty even though they all turned socialist to-morrow. And they all took a bit laugh at that, Chris and Εwan were fair forgotten for a while, they looked at each other and smiled, Εwan reached down and squeezed her hand and Chris wished every soul but themselves a hundred miles from Blawearie.
But then Chae cried Fill up your glasses, folk, the best man has a toast. And the Red Highlander, McIvor, got up to his feet and bowed his red head to Chris, and began to speak; he spoke fine, though funny with that Highland twist, he said he’d never seen a sweeter quean than the bride or known a better friend than the groom; and he wished them long and lovely days, a marriage in the winter had the best of it. For was not the Spring to come and the seed-time springing of their love, and the bonny days of the summer, flowering it, and autumn with the harvest of their days? And when they passed to that other winter together they would know that was not the end of it, it was but a sleep that in another life would burgeon fresh from another earth. He could never believe but that two so young and fair as his friend and his friend’s wife, once made one flesh would be one in the spirit as well; and have their days built of happiness and their nights of the music of the stars. And he lifted his glass and cried The bride! looking at Chris with his queer, bright eyes, the daft Highland poet, they were all like that, the red Highlanders. And everybody cried Good luck to her! and they all drank up and Chris felt herself blush from head to foot under all the blue things she wore.
A Scots Quair Page 18
