‘The hale street knows, lassie,’ he told the root, when he went back to the fight, ‘and I’ll no have them lace-curtained wifies condemning you. The god Respectability hides some fell queer goings-on.’
As if as a sign to him, the root finally yielded up the battle and capitulated, sending both victor and vanquished backwards into the bushes. Davie swore, picked himself up, and hauled the rest of the monster out of the pipe. Then he carried it, waving over his shoulder like a giant serpent, down to the bottom of the garden, where he put it on the bonfire with all the other garden rubbish he had been accumulating all afternoon. He watched the roots writhing in the flames and then, when all danger from the fire had gone, he washed his hands at the standpipe and went in to do battle with Catriona.
She looked surprised to see Davie enter without knocking, but there was a faint smile of pleasure in her tired eyes.
Ach, lassie, lassie, he thought, can you not give someone else a share in your burden? What joy it would be to help you. But he had had too many years of not expressing himself and stood tongue-tied looking at her.
Catriona looked back at him and, as if she sensed his feelings, she put her hands protectively over the voluminous apron she had taken to wearing.
‘You know then, Davie?’
‘Aye.’
‘And yet you don’t condemn.’
At this Davie forgot his habits of taciturnity and grabbed her hands. ‘Lassie, lassie, could I have killed him for you, I would have.’
Abruptly Catriona sat down and he pulled out one of the wooden chairs from the table and sat near her, almost close enough to touch her, if he could summon up the courage to do so.
For some time they sat without speaking, Catriona with her head bowed, apparently looking at the work-worn hands in her aproned lap, and Davie looking tenderly at her red-gold head with its streaks of silver. At last Catriona began to speak, haltingly.
‘I was so ashamed, Davie, and afraid that you . . . that everyone would think I had . . .’ She could not continue.
He leaned forward but he did not touch her. ‘Nobody that knows you could think you would encourage him, Catriona.’ There, he had said her name, but if she noticed she gave no sign.
‘I did not fight at first, Davie.’ She looked up at him unflinchingly, straightforwardly. ‘You have to know that. It was like a dream, and then I realized what was going to happen, what was happening, and I fought but . . . it was soon over. And I prayed, really for Victoria, that nothing would come of it, that I could just forget it, put it away like a horrible nightmare. Dr Currie forced me to accept what had happened to me, what was happening. I was terrified, so ashamed, and I thought of the shame to Victoria, her embarrassment when people found out. After . . . after that night, perhaps I worked too hard to try to let nature take a natural course, but then I thought: poor wee soul, it’s not your fault that you are coming so unwelcomed into the world. I’m having John’s baby, Davie, and although in the beginning I would have done almost anything to get rid of it, later sometimes I was almost glad. When he moved, Davie, when he told me he was alive and growing . . . my heart melted.
‘When John left – well, when his father wouldn’t allow him back – and he never tried, not once, to contact me or even to see Victoria, I still thought of myself as his wife. Even after the divorce went through, I never thought of remarriage. I loved John so much; it took a long time to tear him out of my heart. And when he came here, well, he was Victoria’s father, and then I’ve always been a very practical woman, and I talked myself into thinking that he really would pay his way, that maybe we could come to some sort of civilized relationship.’
She looked down at her lap again. ‘Divorced, with a daughter; how I have prayed and thanked God that my mother never lived to see me divorced. The shame of it, Davie, but I was brought up to endure what must be endured. To many, maybe myself included, I was beyond the pale of respectability. I decided to devote myself to Victoria, to do my best to give her a decent home. And when John came and I saw him work his charm on her . . . But I thought he might truly come to love his own child. That would be natural, wouldn’t it? So I felt that I had no right to stop them loving one another. And now this . . .’
She smiled at him tentatively. ‘Am I making any sense? The neighbours, some of them, began to avoid me and I lost my nerve. I haven’t been outside the door in weeks, not even to the kirk. The shame of divorce is nothing to the shame of this. Victoria is my comfort, and then there’s Dr Currie. I thought she would find new lodgings – and who would blame her? – but there’s two of them prepared to fight for me.’
‘There’s three, lass, if you’ll let me.’ Davie laughed aloud with joy. For weeks he had been trying to find the words and now, when he had not even been thinking, the right ones had popped out by themselves.
Catriona looked at him. She did not understand his laughter. ‘What are you saying, Davie Menmuir?’
‘I’m saying that I’ve admired you half my life, Catriona Cameron. I’m saying that I’ve learned to respect you even more these last few years. I’m saying that when I was a lad, I fell in love with a lass and we had a good marriage, and I wouldn’t want a moment of that changed, but I’m saying that it’s no an untried lad, but a man, that loves and wants you, Catriona Cameron, as he has never wanted any other woman.’
As if surprised by his words, Davie fell quiet.
‘But, Davie, I’m soiled and you . . .’
Soiled? Soiled? How could she think that of herself? Anger swelled inside him until he thought he might start to cough again. He fought his illness more strenuously than he had fought the root in her plumbing and interrupted her.
‘I have little to offer you, lass, but my name and my heart. I can’t bring you riches, or even a regular wage, but when I’m well I’ll work all the hours God gives me, and I could do a lot round here for you. Did you know I’ve become a grand cook? Isn’t it my mother herself who says nobody makes better pastry.’
Catriona smiled. ‘But the baby, Davie?’
‘Is more mine than his. Was he not here only for the begetting? I’ll love him, Catriona. Och, lassie, the birth of an innocent baby is a reason for joy in this sorry world! That young laird that was buried – did wee Victoria love him? Will a marriage and a new wee brother or sister not help to heal her wounds and all?’
Catriona stood up and went to the range. She lifted the lid from the pot that stood there and mouth-watering smells filled the small kitchen. Davie felt his tastebuds quiver in anticipation.
‘I don’t know what she felt about the poor laddie,’ said Catriona as she stirred. ‘I’m not sure that she knows herself. And lately she’s been so busy helping me and sustaining me. You should see her walk to the tram with her head held high. I’m so proud of her, Davie.’
‘And so you should be. She’s Jock Cameron through and through, is she not? And she’s her mother’s daughter too, Catriona Cameron. You never give yourself credit for that girl. When she did well at the school it was because she was her grampa’s girl. You, and only you, should get the credit that she’s turned out such a nice lass. And another thing you don’t seem to want to admit is that she’s no a wee lassie any mair: she’s a grown woman. Victoria deserves her own life, Catriona. For her sake, if not for yours or mine, marry me.’
There, he had said it. Marry me. That was it. He wanted to marry her. She thought she was shop-soiled goods, and he thought that he was only half a man, but his loving heart was intact. He could love her and work for her and protect her, if only she would give him that right.
Catriona moved away from the range and put her hands on the strong back of one of the kitchen chairs. She gripped it hard. He could see her knuckles standing out.
‘Oh, Davie, it’s not right to marry just to give the baby a name, to save what little reputation I have left, to release Victoria – although Victoria mustn’t be made to feel that she has to stay. I want her to go out, to meet young peop
le, both boys and girls. This great love of hers – how could it be love, Davie? They were bairns, and she must get over his death and open her heart again.’ She stopped and they looked at one another. Was Victoria the only one who was to open her heart to a new love? Catriona took refuge in stirring her soup again and then she turned back to him, standing there so anxious, so caring. ‘And I never suspected . . . I couldn’t bear to be married out of pity. You do pity me, Davie. No, let me finish. You’re a kind and loving man, a decent man and maybe you’re mistaking pity for something else. Maybe you’re just giving it another name.’ She looked up and met his gaze squarely, unflinchingly. ‘Besides, don’t misunderstand me – and, oh, God knows, Davie Menmuir, that I don’t want to hurt you or throw your gift back in your face – but I don’t know what I feel about you. I know I’ve come to rely on you. I know it makes me happy when you are here. But is that enough?’
‘It’s enough for me.’
Catriona looked at him, at his honest, fine-boned face with the lines of both pain and laughter etched deeply into the skin. He had been a soldier for a long time, but he still had a farmer’s eyes, keen and clear. He saw birth and death as equal partners in the game, each with its rightful place. He was a good man. A woman would be proud and lucky to have such a husband. But was it fair to him?
What have I to give him at my time of life? I’m forty-one years old. I have a daughter a step away from her eighteenth birthday, and . . .’
Whatever else she thought she had was lost in an unbelievable pain that ripped through her. It was so sudden and so intense that nature controlled her intellect and Catriona moaned and clutched her middle. Sweat broke out on her forehead and she stumbled forward and gripped the table for support. Cloth, dishes and cutlery fell unheeded to the floor.
‘Oh, God, Davie, the baby,’ she said and this time she screamed as another searing pain struck her.
Davie had his arms around her. They were strong. ‘There, there, my lass,’ he said, automatically using the words and the tone that he had adopted naturally with his master’s animals in like circumstances. ‘There, there.’
‘Use the telephone, Davie,’ gasped Catriona. ‘It’s easy. Lift the receiver and ask for Dr Currie’s office.’
The telephone. He couldn’t deal with that new-fangled machine. He would run down the road and get a cab, and perhaps a policeman.
The telephone, Davie. Please,’ groaned Catriona. ‘You’ll see, Davie lad, it’s easy.’
He looked at her, lying moaning in the chair. The telephone. If a lassie like Victoria could handle it, so too could Sergeant Davie Menmuir, late of the Black Watch. Davie gritted his teeth, straightened his shoulders and hurried out into the hall.
*
Nearly five hours later, Davie sought comfort in his mother’s kitchen. He sat in the big chair before the fire, stretched his stockinged feet out to the brass fender, lay back on her cross-stitched cushions and let the heat soak into his cold bones. ‘I had to leave her,’ he said in a voice harrowed by pain. ‘It’s no human.’
‘Ach, Davie lad, there’s nae place for a man at a birthing. The hospital doctors know fine what they’re doing. Catriona’s in good hands.’
Davie looked up at his mother and took the mug of hot soup from her. He needed both its warmth and its sustenance.
‘It was just, they knew I had nae business there, nae right.’ His tone was so despondent that his parents looked at one another over his bowed head. Was he thinking of his young wife, so cruelly dead before her baby was even big enough to be born?
‘Catriona’s a strong woman,’ said Bessie Menmuir firmly. ‘It’ll be different this time.’
‘Aye,’ said Davie sadly, ‘and me as much use as I was the last time I was near a birthing.’
If their widowed son’s obvious interest in their former mistress was not one they would welcome, the older Menmuirs gave no sign. They were country people, accepting birth and death as one accepts the changing seasons – perhaps not always to be welcomed but, in their words, to be tholed, or accepted.
‘The land’s looking grand, Father,’ said Davie, trying to cheer up his parents and himself. There was nothing they could do for Catriona and it would be better to think of something – anything – to keep his mind off the swift pace of events after his first, quavering use of the telephone. ‘That trust fund must be growing like the winter wheat,’ he went on, as if he had nothing else on his mind.
‘Aye, lad,’ agreed old Tam, as he bent towards the fire to light a taper for his nightly indulgence of a good pipe. ‘Mr Boatman is a very astute fellow, and as honest as the day is long, and him a lawyer,’ he added, as if the two were not naturally compatible. ‘To let your English school teacher rent the house, and have me and my own men do the work the way we always did it for old Jock, was inspired thinking. Do you not think so, Bessie?’
Bessie Menmuir was not in the habit of handing out praise. She avoided the opportunity again. She ignored the talk of lawyers and trust funds, neither of which she knew a thing about, and went straight to the real issue.
‘Well, what was inspired thinking was for our Davie to take the tram hame. A good meal and a good sleep in your own bed, Davie.’
‘Aye,’ agreed his father. ‘Mistress Cameron will need her friends more than ever when this is over, and you’ll be little use to her if you’re sick.’
Davie looked up. Had his father stressed the word ‘friends’? There was no time to question him though, for from the yard came the sound of a hooting car horn. Who would come calling at Priory Farm who also owned a motor car?
All three Menmuirs rushed to the door and threw it open.
Outside, a fraction of an inch from the heavy iron gate of the steading, stood a car, and climbing out of it were Dr Currie and Victoria. Victoria ran to Mrs Menmuir.
‘It’s a boy, a bonnie wee boy, and my mother is fine.’
‘Over already?’ breathed Davie. ‘And she’s fine – and a wee laddie.’ He looked up at Dr Currie and took over from his father, who was obviously too overcome to act the host. ‘You’ll come in, Dr Currie, and wet the bairn’s head?’
Dr Currie bent to enter the little cottage and its warmth reached out to her. ‘I’d be delighted, Davie, and Victoria assured me of a good tea, Mistress Menmuir, if we can impose.’
‘Impose, impose, what a word for a cup of tea and a bit scone.’ Davie’s mother bustled around, thought Victoria, like one of her own hens. Bessie had never entertained a lady doctor before, but she was serenely at ease. Everyone who came to the Menmuir door would receive the same welcome: what we have we share.
The whisky was passed around and Victoria took a cautious sip. Then she put the glass aside and gave herself up to enjoying being back in this cottage, which she had visited a thousand times as a child. Dr Currie was giving the Menmuirs an abridged account of Catriona’s labour and delivery and, Victoria saw with delight, was appreciating her whisky as much as Davie and Tam.
‘I’ll have her moved to a private room, Mrs Menmuir,’ the doctor was saying. ‘That way there is a little more freedom for visitors. And if you can convince matron that you know what you are doing, who knows, she just might let you hold . . . Victoria’s wee brother.’
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ said Victoria. ‘You know, I never really thought until you said those words, Dr Currie, but I have a brother – and one day this farm will be his. Don’t you think Grampa would have loved to have had a grandson?’
The four older people looked at one another and then looked away again.
‘It’s a grand, clear night, Victoria. Wrap yourself up against the cold and see that nowt has changed,’ said Davie. ‘We’ll have our drink and then it’s me that will help with the tea.’
Victoria smiled at the gentle man who was coming to mean so much to them. And, after wrapping her shawl warmly around her shoulders, she went out into the crisp night air.
She laughed again as she saw how nearly Dr Currie had missed the gat
e and then she stood and looked up at the sky. The stars were so bright she felt that she could almost touch them. And as she stood holding her breath, as she had done all those years ago in this selfsame spot, a streak of silver flashed across the sky and disappeared into nothingness.
A shooting star. A baby is born and a star has died: nature’s balance. Will I be the first to tell you of shooting stars, little brother, and of walnut shells? I’ll fill one tonight and I’ll put your birth in it, and Dr Currie and the Menmuirs, and the shooting star and the lovely sound the cattle make there in the steading as they stand together to keep warm.
She walked across to the gate and looked over the top at the milling beef stirks. One stayed near the fence and did not flinch from her hand as she touched his soft, warm nose. ‘And I’ll put your courage in, little stirk, and this starry sky, and the joy of seeing lighted windows and knowing that people you love are in there, waiting.’ She breathed in the smells of the farm, the wood smoke from the cottage fire, the warm breath of the animals. ‘This is me and this is mine. It will always be home – no matter where life takes me.’
The door of the farmhouse opened and a river of light spilled out into the darkness. Then the light was broken by the dark figure of a man.
‘Tea’s on, lass,’ came Davie’s voice. ‘Come in afore the cold gets you.’
And Victoria had a feeling that she would often stand there in the years to come, and that Davie’s voice would call to her across the darkness, as would another voice, that she had not yet heard but for which she was prepared to wait.
‘I’m coming, Davie,’ she said and he heard the smile in her voice.
14
DAVIE MENMUIR’S STARCHED COLLAR THREATENED to rub a line on his neck. He stuck his calloused fingers inside it to try to ease the stiffness. That was better. It was the Sunday tie; how he wished he could take it off. He had his Sunday suit on, too, and he was carrying a parcel and, quite frankly, he felt a bit of a fool.
The Farm Girl's Dream Page 15
