The Laird of Lochandee

by Gwen Kirkwood

  Two weeks later Beth was convinced she must be expecting a child. Her face was pale, her mind wild with worry. The child was not Harry’s! However much her heart and mind willed it, she knew the baby could not be her husband’s.

  Another week, another letter, the same question came from Harry.

  Beth knew for certain now that she was carrying Conan Maxwell’s child.

  That evening when Carol and her two children had settled for the night Beth sat down with her pen and writing pad at the kitchen table. She chewed her pen so hard the end came off in her mouth. She clenched her fingers.

  ‘Please God, help me do the right thing!’ she prayed silently. She couldn’t bear to hurt Harry. She loved him and he loved her. He did not deserve to be betrayed. Suddenly her mind was crystal clear. She would tell him they were expecting a baby at last. No one need ever know the child was not his. No one ever would. The secret was hers, and hers alone.

  ‘After so many disappointments I had to be sure before I told you …’ she wrote. ‘I have not been to the doctor, but I know.’

  Harry’s letter came back by return. He was jubilant. He had asked for leave. He might only get twenty-four hours but he would come if he had to walk all the way.

  In fact Harry got thirty-six hours leave and Beth knew beyond doubt she had done right to keep her secret. He declared himself the happiest man on earth. As she lay in his arms, satiated by love and talk she murmured,

  ‘You know, Harry, I can’t help wondering whether Mrs Maxwell might be expecting a baby again …’

  ‘Mrs Maxwell!’ Harry laughed. ‘She can’t be! Can she? I mean she has a grown-up son. Bridie must be fourteen or fifteen …’

  ‘I know. But she can’t be more than about thirty-eight. She’s very pretty.’

  ‘Not as pretty as my wife.’ Harry grinned and hugged her close.

  ‘Och, I know what you are wanting Harry Mason. But seriously, Mrs Maxwell is usually so strong and healthy. If she’s not expecting a baby it must be something serious because she’s sick every morning. She’s been like that for at least two weeks, maybe more.’

  ‘Well … well. Better to be a late baby than an illness,’ Harry mused. But nothing could wipe away the huge grin he had worn since he had heard their own good news.

  Rachel did not believe she could be expecting another child, in spite of the passionate loving she and Ross had indulged in since Conan’s departure. Common sense told her that it was possible. She had been seventeen when Conan was born. Then, as now, the awful nausea had started almost immediately.

  ‘You must see the doctor,’ Ross urged anxiously. ‘Suppose it’s something else. You were never so ill with Margaret and Bridie.’

  Reluctantly, Rachel visited Doctor MacEwan. He confirmed her suspicions and advised her to take more rest.

  ‘Rest! Doctor there’s no time to rest with the young men away at the war.’

  ‘I thought you had one of those machines for milking cows now at Lochandee?’

  ‘We do, but someone still has to put the machines on and off the cows and empty the buckets and carry the milk to the dairy. Besides there are so many other things to do besides the milking. The turnip hoeing will be starting soon and the sheep are ready to be sheared …’

  ‘And then it will be hay time, corn harvest, potatoes. I know, I know! There’s little time between farming seasons. But for the sake of your health, especially at your age, you must try to rest. How is Mrs Beattie?’

  ‘Not very well. Her lips are so blue. Some days it’s quite alarming.’

  ‘She knows her heart is not so good. She does not fear death. She seems more concerned for the future of The Glens of Lochandee, since young Conan went away.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rachel sighed. ‘We try to reassure her. Bridie loves Lochandee as much as anyone. She pesters me to let her leave school and work as a land girl.’

  ‘Well if your own health is at stake you might be wise to consider her suggestion. Alternatively there’s a rumour that prisoners of war are to be billeted near Lockerbie. Some of them are German and Italian men who have been resident in Britain. I believe they are to be allocated to farms under supervision. I should think you have enough land to qualify for extra help. Ask your husband to consider it.’

  ‘I will,’ Rachel nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘By the way, Mrs Maxwell, my wife is hoping to get a little concert organised for the winter. Just an effort to bring some cheer to the village, you understand.’

  ‘Well, we could all do with that I suppose, but it will be hard to think of Christmas for families where the head of the house is away. It must be terrible for those who have lost their husbands …’ And sons, Rachel added silently, thinking of Conan, praying he was safe, as she did a hundred times a day.

  ‘Yes indeed. If the concert raises any money my wife thought it might be used to buy gifts for the children in the parish who have lost their fathers. We have four families already. We wondered if your husband would play the fiddle. My wife’s hoping to persuade Bridie to sing. She has a delightful voice. I have admired it often in church.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Doctor MacEwan.’ Rachel flushed with pride. ‘I’m sure Ross will help. I shall leave it to Mrs MacEwan to persuade Bridie though. She has never sung in public.’

  As the weeks turned to months Rachel’s nausea never completely cleared as she had expected it would. She felt her cravings always seemed to be for the things which were rationed or unobtainable. Beth, on the other hand, blossomed with good health and happiness. Rachel was delighted for her, but her condition meant she too would be unable to carry out the heavier work. So Bridie got her wish to finish school at the end of the summer term.

  Alice Beattie took Bridie’s hand between her own two wrinkled ones and smiled warmly.

  ‘I’m glad you’re coming home to The Glens of Lochandee – just as I did, Bridie. ‘I know how much you love it, lassie. You’ll not regret it.’ A few days later she wrote a letter to her lawyer, adding a codicil to her will.

  Conan had made two short visits home but at the beginning of November he wrote to ask if the rations would stretch to three of his fellow airmen.

  “Mark comes from Derbyshire. He is a pilot but he was studying Accountancy at university. Recently his twin brother died when his plane was shot down over the Channel. George is from London. Their house was bombed and both of his parents were killed. If you can feed us all I’m sure a brief spell in our peaceful glens would help them.

  You already know about Nick, the friend I mentioned when I wrote to Beth. He is a flight engineer, like me now. We trained together and if we both come through this awful war, we have vowed to set up a garage. We shall have to start small but some day I plan to have buses and take people for holidays. Can you believe that some of the lads have never seen a new-born lamb, or a sprig of heather, or heard the cuckoo call?

  Now I must end because it’s time for tea. Sunday tea is the best meal of the week – a thick slice of cold ham with pickles, and bread with a scraping of butter. At least we can see what it is we are eating. They don’t mix it up with other things on Sundays.”

  There were a few more lines hoping they were all well, but Rachel’s heart sank. She knew by Ross’s silence that he had received a blow when Conan mentioned his dream of setting up in a garage. She guessed he had never given up hope that he would return home and take over the farm. Strangely, Alice seemed quite serene and untroubled by Conan’s plans for the future.

  After two postponements, Conan finally confirmed that he and his friends were to get three days leave at the beginning of December. Harry Mason and two other men from the parish were also on leave for the Saturday and Sunday. Mrs MacEwan promptly decided the concert should be brought forward by one week for the benefit of the young servicemen.

  A hectic week of practices and hasty dress rehearsals ensued. No one believed the concert would be ready in time, but young women and old men joined together to put up the makeshift stage in the village
hall. The two schoolteachers had drilled their pupils in a short sketch and begged or borrowed blackout materials and old clothes to improvise costumes. There was to be a clown but his identity had been kept a strict secret. It did not occur to any of the villagers that it might be a woman dressed as a clown – least of all the minister’s wife.

  ‘We’ll show that man Hitler that all the rationing and clothing coupons in the world will not crush the spirit of the folks of Lochandee village,’ Mrs MacEwan declared after the final dress rehearsal.

  Bridie was dreadfully nervous. The arrival of Conan and his friends made her feel even worse, they all looked so handsome in their uniforms.

  ‘Ah, so quiet it is,’ Nick Jones reflected dreamily, staring up at the starry sky. ‘It is my own Welsh valley it brings to my thoughts tonight.’

  ‘But more beautiful, of course,’ Conan teased and received a playful thump on the shoulder. The other two airmen were quiet. George Green was a city dweller. He had never known such peace.

  ‘Have you ever heard of silence keeping you awake?’ he ventured. ‘I know it must sound strange, but I couldn’t get to sleep last night. I thought I must have died and gone to heaven. There was no drone of aircraft, no sirens, no drunken airmen, no clash of morning milk bottles – nothing!’

  ‘Peace.’ Mark nodded. He was missing his brother dreadfully. He could have done with half a lifetime, here in the gentle glens. Bobby would have loved it too. The two of them had spent most of their school holidays roaming the Derbyshire moors. Once they had gone to some caves with a party of older men but neither of them had liked being underground.

  There was no doubting the warmth of the welcome for all of them when they arrived at the village hall. An elderly woman with a hooded torch showed them the way up the uneven path, ushering them swiftly into the dimly lit hall with its heavily shuttered windows. Rows of wooden forms had been set out facing the small stage.

  Conan and his friends joined Harry and the other two men in uniform. By mutual consent they preferred to forget about the war, for one evening at least.

  Bridie felt her voice would never carry to the back where the uniformed group had gathered. Her throat and mouth felt like sandpaper, dry with nerves. Her first song was “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and it was an ordeal Bridie felt she would never forget as long as she lived. Amazingly there was a spontaneous burst of applause. Then from the back of the hall came the very Welsh voice,

  ‘Wonderful! Even the girls in our valleys cannot sing better!’

  Bridie doubted if he was speaking the truth but she sent a silent prayer of thanks for Nick’s boost to her confidence. She sang the “Isle of Capri” with almost as much gusto as Gracie Fields herself.

  Ross had selected his own music with some care. The minister’s wife was to accompany him on the piano and they had managed a few practices. He avoided the jigs and reels since there was no room for dancing tonight. The audience seemed to enjoy participating and there were several requests until the minister had to stand up and remind the audience there was still a second half of the concert to follow.

  ‘Maybe we shall persuade Mr Maxwell and his daughter to give us a concert every month since they are so popular.’ He beamed when this was greeted with loud cheers of approval. Rachel, sitting near the back with Beth, felt her cheeks glow with pride.

  Mrs MacEwan had planned the program specially to have Bridie as the finale in the second half. Ross too had chosen quieter, more nostalgic lullabies. But it was Bridie’s clear young voice which brought a lump to many throats as she sang ‘We’ll Meet Again.’

  ‘She sings that so – so beautifully,’ Beth whispered huskily, her mind on Harry. She hated saying goodbye.

  ‘She has her father’s ear for music,’ Rachel nodded proudly.

  But it was the pure sweet notes of “Home Sweet Home” which caused more than one tear to fall.

  Then spontaneously the young airmen were drawn forward by the rest of the audience as they all clasped hands for a rousing chorus of Auld Lang Syne.

  All too soon it was morning again and time for Conan and his friends to leave The Glens of Lochandee. They were sincere in their praise of Scottish hospitality in spite of the rationing.

  ‘I hope you will all come back to see us,’ Rachel told them warmly. ‘You will be very welcome, even if Conan is not free to come with you.’

  ‘It is kind you are!’ Nick Jones exclaimed in his lilting voice. His eyes moved to Bridie, ‘I shall be accepting for sure.’ He smiled and kissed Bridie on both cheeks. ‘Will you write to me?’ he asked.

  ‘And to me?’ George and Mark echoed in unison.

  ‘It’s true we all love getting letters,’ Conan nodded at her.

  ‘Aah Conan is boasting to us always about the long letters you write to him, telling him about your lovely Glens of Lochandee,’ Nick said.

  ‘Well he’s not very good at writing back!’ Bridie exclaimed. ‘I didn’t even know you appreciated my efforts, big brother.’

  ‘Oh, I do, indeed I do, Bridie.’ Conan sounded more serious than she had ever heard him. ‘You’ll be sure to tell me as soon as …’ he looked to where his mother was talking to Mark. ‘As soon as I get a wee brother or sister, and that Mother is all right? Who would ever have thought …?’ He raised his eyebrows. Bridie grinned at him.

  ‘I think it’s wonderful! They must be still in love after all these years.’

  ‘Och, you old romantic!’ Conan teased.

  ‘And what is being wrong with good old romance?’ Nick winked at Bridie, bringing a blush to her rosy cheeks. ‘It makes me feel I could be killing old Jerry with my two bare hands for the sake of your lovely sister, and her friends of course.’

  ‘Oh of course,’ Conan mocked. ‘You need to watch old Nick, Bridie. But Mother and Father are not the only ones. I believe Harry is thrilled to pieces because he is going to be a father?’

  ‘I know,’ Bridie smiled. ‘I’m glad for them. Beth has wanted a baby of her own for ages. She told me.’

  All too soon the chatter had to end. Goodbyes were said.

  ‘You’re a lucky fellow, Conan,’ Nick Jones sighed wistfully. ‘I don’t think I could have torn myself away from all that – not when you had a good enough reason to stay – family and friends, the valleys and lakes …’

  ‘Glens and lochs,’ Conan grinned, ‘at least that’s what we call them in Scotland.’

  ‘Whatever you call them, it’s beautiful countryside, warm-hearted people – and a lovely sister.’

  ‘I reckon it’s a good job we are taking this philanderer away with us,’ George teased.

  ‘I’m glad you asked me to come with you, Conan,’ Mark said quietly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘We are pleased you agreed to come.’

  ‘Your mother told me you had another sister?’

  ‘Yes. She died when she was young, but I don’t think Mother ever forgets.’

  ‘No. Yet life goes on.’ He sighed. ‘Yes, I’m very glad I came.’

  * * *

  Christmas was a subdued affair everywhere in spite of the extra rations of four ounces of sugar and two ounces of tea. Women had done their best to save up coupons and improvise as much as they could, but everyone was aware of the serious threat of invasion and the devastation and suffering caused by the bombs.

  Rachel was far from well. Doctor MacEwan warned her to rest her swollen legs as much as possible. There was still no word of the prisoners of war coming out to help. Beth only went home at weekends now to save the bicycle ride from the village. She had kept in remarkably good health and still helped Bridie with the milking and the hens. Ross forbade her to attempt any of the heavier tasks.

  At the end of January they were all taken by surprise when Rachel announced in the middle of the Monday morning washing,

  ‘I think the baby is coming! It isn’t due for at least another three weeks by my reckoning …’ She broke off, with a gasp, doubling up as pain enveloped her.

  ‘Get your fa
ther, Bridie!’ Beth called in panic. ‘Bed … you must go to bed …’

  Doctor MacEwan arrived in person in response to Ross’s garbled telephone call.

  ‘Mrs Warner, the new midwife, is on her way.’

  Three hours later Doctor MacEwan informed Ross that he had another son.

  ‘He’s a mite early, and a bit on the small side – just over five pounds. But with careful nursing and plenty of warmth, he should survive. The midwife thinks he will be a bit slow to feed at first. I leave these things to the womenfolk. They have more experience about such matters than we men.’

  ‘But Rachel? My wife, is she all right? Can I see her now?’ Ross demanded tensely.

  ‘You’ll be able to see her shortly. To tell the truth I think it’s for the best that the baby is as impatient as his father …’ He quirked his bushy eyebrows humorously, but Ross was too anxious about Rachel to notice. ‘I’m serious, Mr Maxwell. It is fortunate the baby is early. Another month and your wife’s health could have suffered badly. You will have to give her time and be patient. Your son will need some extra care.’

  ‘He’s so small!’ Rachel lamented tearfully the following day. ‘Do you think we should ask the minister to come and christen him?’

  ‘Doctor MacEwan seemed to think he would be all right,’ Ross tried to reassure her. He was far more concerned for her own health in spite of her protestations that she was fine. He consulted the midwife, a homely little woman called Amy Warner.

  ‘I’m well-pleased with your son, Mr Maxwell. He is feeding better than I expected. But, if it would put your wife’s mind at rest, I see no harm in asking the minister to christen the wee fellow. Have you chosen a name yet?’

  ‘Name? Why no, we have not discussed that.’

  ‘Well,’ Amy chuckled, ‘You had better go and talk with Mrs Maxwell first then. Don’t worry if she’s a bit tearful. It was a short labour but not an easy one.’