The Farm Girl's Dream

by Eileen Ramsay

  *

  Flora took an early train to Edinburgh so that she could have a shampoo and wave, and she wore her soft blue woollen dress. It was a colour made world-famous by a young American socialite who gave it her name, Alice. And, like Alice Roosevelt, Flora knew what suited her.

  They met in the dining room of the Overseas Club, and it pleased Flora that the comforting bulk of Edinburgh Castle filled the window where they sat. It had stood there for hundreds of years and had seen both comedy and tragedy enacted, often under its very roof, and still it stood there, calm, dignified, comforting.

  Even the stress and worry over his son’s condition had not detracted too much from Sandy Fotheringham’s good looks and soldierly bearing, and his manners were as perfect as they had been all those years ago, when they had walked and hunted and danced their young lives away in an endless round of social engagements.

  Why didn’t I marry him when I had the chance? Flora thought to herself, as he held the chair out for her to sit down at the table. Or did I ever really have a chance? Did I even put up a fight after Julia appeared? Was I so used to being handed everything I wanted on a golden plate? Well, my dear Flora, those days are gone and, no doubt, that is a good thing.

  She smiled up at Sandy as she sat down, and the smile revealed nothing of her inner turmoil. He returned the smile and there was one of those precious moments when time stands still and all worries disappear – little moments that are given to everyone, and which the wise snatch and keep safe. Victoria would have put the intimate smile in a walnut shell, but Flora knew nothing of walnut shells.

  ‘They have some decent wine, Flora. I ordered this morning in order to save time – I hope you don’t mind. I knew you would understand the lateness of our engagement, but I must spend as much time as possible at the hospital.’ He tried to laugh. ‘But don’t worry. I remembered your sweet tooth and I’ve ordered a pudding.’

  He was quiet as the waiter poured the wine and Flora felt that the interruption was giving him a chance to shape his next sentence. ‘He’s stopped asking for his mother, you know,’ Sandy said when the waiter had gone.

  Dr Currie’s first impulse was to reassure him. ‘Some people cannot take the sounds and smells of illness, Sandy, and to see a dearly beloved only child . . .’ Dr Currie knew that they both knew she was lying, and she stopped.

  ‘A less selfish woman would put the boy’s needs first,’ said Lord Inchmarnock angrily, then he remembered that he was discussing his wife. Bad form to discuss one’s wife. Unforgivable to censure her behaviour. ‘Forgive me, I didn’t come here to air my own mistakes, especially to you. Delicious pâté.’ He forced a smile. ‘I wish you liked it. I always wanted to share everything with you, you know.’

  ‘Friends,’ said Flora, with perhaps a little undue stress on the word, ‘don’t need to share everything. They can appreciate their differences. Remember the hours and hours I spent watching you play cricket? Dear Lord,’ – she laughed, a genuine laugh – ‘what a soul-destroying game. Only thing that made it bearable was reading, when you couldn’t see me. I went through several of the classics. Some might consider that to be two punishments in the same afternoon,’ she finished lightly.

  He reached across the table and touched her hand, and she let it lie there until he smiled and let go. And then he frowned. ‘You’re not wearing your watch. You used to wear it all the time, but, now that I think about it, you weren’t wearing it that first time you came to see my laddie. Is that a message for me?’

  She thought for a moment and almost lied, but he deserved the truth. ‘It was stolen.’ Her eyes filled with tears as she relived the moment when she had gone into her bedroom to check. ‘My landlady’s ex-husband. What an absolute cad he is, Sandy, and she is well rid of him. Unfortunately he seems to have disappeared. Perhaps he’s gone abroad, I certainly hope so. He never was the slightest bit of good to them. You know the type of man, all charm and no substance.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, I know the type, and this one took your watch?’

  She nodded. ‘I reported the theft to the police.’

  Suddenly he was angry. Flora Currie in a boarding house in Dundee. She could afford better. ‘I can’t understand why you’re living like that anyway, Flora. What would your father have had to say about it?’

  ‘Catriona’s house is clean and convenient. She does everything for me, even washes my clothes. I’m unbelievably undomesticated, Sandy, or just lazy. And it is difficult, especially since the war, to get decent help.’

  ‘If only you had chosen me, instead of medicine, Flora . . .’

  She could hardly breathe. Chosen him, instead of medicine. Oh, you fool, Sandy Inchmarnock. What need would I have had for a career if your love had survived the test, but it hadn’t. It had dissolved, just as the patterns Jack Frost leaves on the windows dissolve as soon as the first rays of the sun appear. That sun was Julia, and her rays had burned through everything. Flora tried to laugh, to be nonchalant and sophisticated.

  ‘Oh, darling Sandy, you know you were knocked for six when Julia appeared like a comet, cutting a path through all you young men.’

  They looked at one another, each surely seeing the other as they had been all those years ago. He looked away first, bowing his head in acknowledgement of the truth. He had been insane, with an insanity that had, unfortunately, lasted only a few years.

  ‘Well, what was it my father’s old coachman used to say? Ye mun drie yer ain wierd, and I have and I will. But my boy, Flora? What future is there for my boy?’

  Instantly she was the consummate professional. ‘He can live a full life, Sandy. They’ll do wonders rebuilding his face, and the rest of his injuries will repair with time. Robert’s main problem is what we call the will to live. His spirit will take longer to recover.’

  ‘Will it ever recover? Will he laugh again? Will he enjoy life?’

  ‘With you there to love him, and his mother . . . She must be there to support him.’

  ‘And the girl? She’s a brave little thing. I see her refuse to flinch when she looks at him. Will she come back?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Sandy. Victoria will come back. Some women are faithful, you know, against all the odds.’

  She looked at him across the candlelit table and she could see the warmth, even the love, in his eyes. She prayed that he could see their reflection in her own. Was that all life held for them – reflections of what might have been?

  ‘Julia’s coming up at last,’ he said, when he could bear the tension no longer. ‘I’m taking the boy to Inchmarnock. He’ll get better there, in his mind anyway.’

  ‘That’s nine-tenths of the battle.’ Flora too was relieved that the spell was broken. ‘I shall look forward to seeing Julia again. It will remind me to have a manicure. I can’t remember when I last applied any polish.’

  *

  Julia Fotheringham, Lady Inchmarnock, unaware that her very presence could cause such a change in the lifestyle of her husband’s old friend, did make the long journey from London to Edinburgh after Robert’s operations: not immediately, so that Sandy might feel he had the upper hand, and not so long after the operation that her set might think her unfeeling. Robert’s face, her husband told her, was decently hidden by bandages so, thought Julia, she could bear to see her beloved son again. Robert understood her feelings, even if her husband did not. But then, Julia thought, Robert had always been much more sympathetic and sensitive than his father, and she was coming for him, not because Sandy had almost ordered her to come.

  She could also visit society’s most controversial young poet, Siegfried Sassoon, who was, so a particularly dear friend had told her, recuperating in the very same hospital. This knowledge, naturally, had in no way influenced Julia’s decision to steel herself to visit her son. She prayed that she would not break down and weep over Robert, and she prayed too that she would be able to lie convincingly and tell him that his hideously disfiguring injuries would make no difference at all to the feelings
of those who loved him. It certainly had in no way changed hers. She would suggest that young Sassoon visited Robert with her. When she returned to London everyone would be thrilled to hear of her meeting with the poet.

  Lady Inchmarnock was, therefore, not too happy to arrive at the George Hotel to find her husband in possession of the suite she had booked.

  ‘Don’t unpack, Julia,’ he said. ‘I’ve opened Inchmarnock. We’re taking the boy home tomorrow.’

  ‘Home?’ The ready tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Oh, Sandy, a mother’s prayers have been answered. He’s better. Our boy is better.’

  Lord Inchmarnock looked at her beautiful face. What was it he had accidentally overheard an old friend say? Julia Fotheringham’s face has never been lived in. My God, how true it was.

  ‘The lad is being sent home to recuperate from this operation, Julia, and to build up his strength for the next one. We’re taking him to Inchmarnock, which he loves and where he may be happier. With both of us there to reassure him, he’ll get well. He said a funny thing to me today: “Inchmarnock’s a walnut shell place.” ’

  Lady Inchmarnock clutched at her husband’s sleeve. ‘Oh, Sandy, is his mind affected? There are no walnut trees at Inchmarnock.’

  Patiently, but firmly, he removed the clutching hand from his well-tailored suit.

  ‘I’ve hired a motor and a driver for tomorrow, Julia. The boy will be more comfortable and more at ease than on a train.’

  ‘But the ferry . . .?’

  ‘He likes the ferry. And the sea air will be good for him. I’ve ordered lunch to be sent up to you later on. I assume you are too exhausted from travelling to face the dining room.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep a wink on the train, Sandy, and had intended to take a little nap before dinner.’ She stopped and looked around, but could see no real evidence of her husband’s cohabitation.

  He saw the frown of worry between her beautifully plucked eyebrows and smiled grimly. ‘Rest easy, Julia. I’m bunking with old Charlie. Your sleep will not be violated. You have until three, and then I will fetch you in a cab and we’ll go together to see Robert. Try to pretend that you are a loving mother.’

  He was gone before she could throw something at him, or even think of anything devastating to say. It was grossly unfair. No one understood. How could she make Sandy appreciate the very real pain she felt when she saw their son – pain for the boy and for his ruined life, his destroyed hopes, not pain for herself. Oh, how dare he, how dare he? He could not understand her feelings. He had not carried the child as she had, in her very body for nine whole months. How could she have persuaded herself that he was a sensitive, loving man? He was a boor. She threw herself on the bed and enjoyed the indulgence of a good cry.

  *

  Three days later the Fotheringhams were comfortably resettled in their country home and Lady Inchmarnock found that it was not too painful to look at her son and to contemplate his future. She had had a wonderful idea that would make everything bearable. To this end she had sent Sandy’s motor with its uniformed driver to fetch Miss Victoria Cameron. She felt that Miss Cameron could not possibly refuse to return with the driver. Who could reject an anguished mother’s plea? What a lovely surprise it would be for Robert, who was now sitting happily in a shaded part of the terrace. Lady Inchmarnock rose as she heard the doorbell and walked quickly to her beautifully appointed rose drawing room. The private motor, then tea with a real lady in such surroundings. Oh, yes, her plan was so perfect.

  ‘Victoria, my dear,’ she said as the maid announced Miss Cameron. ‘How very sweet of you to come at such short notice. I may call you Victoria? We’re going to be such friends, I can feel it. I’m terribly sensitive, you know. It’s such a handicap sometimes. India or China?’ she asked so suddenly that Victoria was somewhat disconcerted, until she saw her hostess gesture to the ornate silver tray with its tea service.

  ‘India, please, Lady Inchmarnock,’ she said quietly.

  Victoria had been surprised by the summons and had been in two minds over whether or not to jump when her ladyship called, but there was Robert to think of. If this afternoon tea had something to do with Robert, then she had no choice but to give up her one free afternoon and go. She wished that Dr Currie was at home so that she could discuss it with her, but since she was not, Victoria had made light of the summons when the chauffeur-driven Bentley stopped outside the modest house on Blackness Road. She was aware that the house and its occupants had been the subject of much speculation recently in the neighbourhood, and now here was more fuel for the flame of gossip. Still, she dressed in her new suit, worn only once since her first visit to Robert’s bedside, and she sprayed a modest amount of eau de Cologne over her hair. The light perfume gave her courage.

  ‘Should you not take a gift?’ Catriona had asked. ‘We always took eggs, or a nice boiling fowl, when we called on folk.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let you down. You put your feet up and have a rest this afternoon.’

  Now here she was with Robert’s mother, who was offering her sandwiches no bigger than her thumb and a cup and saucer finer than anything she had seen outside the walls of a museum.

  ‘And how is Robert, m’ Lady?’ she asked. Victoria was not going to be bullied by Lady Inchmarnock and she wanted to find out immediately the purpose of the visit.

  Robert’s mother looked at her measuringly for a moment. ‘Do you know, Victoria, a pale-green Chinese silk blouse would be adorable with that suit,’ she said. Then she added, ‘He is so well, my dear. His father and I have every expectation that he will live a completely normal life.’

  Victoria smiled at the words and visibly relaxed. She swallowed the tiny sandwich she had been holding in her hand and sipped from her cup. ‘I’m so glad,’ she replied. ‘You said in your note that he was temporarily at home. That must be beneficial: you know how he loves Inchmarnock.’

  Julia bristled. She did not need some upstart working-class office girl telling her whether or not her only son liked his home, but she forced herself to return Victoria’s smile. ‘Pearls are really the only suitable jewels for a young unmarried woman, but that suit does cry out for a discreet diamond brooch, don’t you think? Sandy, Lord Inchmarnock, and I are so glad that you and Robert became friends, my dear,’ she lied easily. ‘In fact, that is why I asked you to come.’

  Victoria rose. ‘Do you want me to visit him, Lady Inchmarnock? Is he in his room? I’m sure my mother will have no objection, since you are here.’

  Oh God, thought Julia, how distressingly working-class. What on earth did the mother think would happen if she were not there? Such dirty minds. ‘Later, dear. Do sit down, Victoria. Robert is resting in the garden, on the terrace – it’s such a lovely afternoon. More tea? No. Then I’ll get to the point, shall I?’

  Victoria sat down, her heart beating uncomfortably. She knew that she was not going to enjoy what she was about to hear. Surely Robert had not been discharged from the hospital in order to die at home. He had come through the operation well, Dr Currie had assured her.

  ‘In some ways Robert will make a complete recovery. He can walk. His broken bones have healed. The damage to his internal organs will incapacitate him to a certain degree, but then, as I’m sure you know,’ she added spitefully, ‘he does not have to earn a living. It is his face, Victoria, and his spirit.’ Julia stopped and tried hard to conjure up a picture of Robert’s face. ‘He’s like me,’ she said. ‘He looks like me. Dark hair and eyes, beautiful eyes.’ She laughed and blushed like a girl. ‘I’m describing my boy, y’know – a sensitive mouth, but there’s no femininity in his. A straight nose. The mouth so beautifully . . .’ The picture just would not come. ‘His face will never be rebuilt as it was. He will always be . . .’ She stopped and pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbed delicately at her eyes, which were swimming with unshed tears. ‘Oh, Victoria, can you understand a little of a mother’s anguish?’ she asked and began to weep softly.

&nb
sp; Victoria sat, horrified. Had it been Catriona or even Dr Currie, she could have moved, done something, said something to offer comfort. What did one say? Anything would sound like a platitude, and she could not console this woman because she could not reach her in any way. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said at last, ‘but surely, surely we can make him see that his looks don’t matter?’

  Robert’s mother blew her nose. It was the most incredibly refined and ladylike action and only succeeded in making Victoria feel worse than she had done before.

  ‘I knew you would say that, Victoria, but all girls are not like you. Robert will feel like a pariah in society, my dear. Every time I see him, I am reminded of the obscenity of war, and I am his mother. I love him and I can’t bear for him to suffer any more. What will be the attitude of some empty-headed débutante? I feel – I’m sure his father does too – that there is little real future for Robert in the world into which he was born.’

  To Victoria’s horror she leaned across the rosewood table and grasped her hand, and Victoria had to steel herself not to snatch it away.

  ‘But you, Victoria. Even as he is, Robert can offer you more than you could ever imagine. Was it not pleasant to arrive exactly at your destination in a chauffeur-driven motor? Would it not be pleasant to throw that dreadful suit away, to wear pure silk against your skin, to put diamonds around your neck and in your ears, to live here, Victoria, as mistress of this house, to change this room and every other in this house as you see fit? I do not expect you to love him, my dear, and I’m sure that his health is such that he would not be a . . .’ She stopped, while she searched her mind for the right adjective, and Victoria held her breath and prayed for the courage not to slap the beautiful, insensitive face. ‘. . . demanding husband. You would be rich, Victoria, secure for the rest of your life. There is even a cottage in the grounds where your mother would be quite comfortable. After all, it’s not as if you and Robert will entertain.’