The Farm Girl's Dream

by Eileen Ramsay

  Better than crying, Tam me lad, he told himself. Only difference between this and Flanders is that no one is shooting at you.

  He bent again to his task. He had to clear the ditch or the water would pile up in the fields, and then the topsoil and the seed would run on to the roads. Up down, up down. He shovelled and threw the piles of rotting vegetation over his shoulder. Then he came across the small heap of bones and the bile rose in his throat, so that he retched. For a horrible moment he could smell death again and he could hear the whining of the shells, the dull thud of the guns, the screaming of the horses and men.

  For a long moment he leaned all his weight on his shovel. ‘Hold it, Tam lad. It’s nout but a wee rabbit eaten by a stoat: a wee Scottish rabbit eaten by a wee Scottish weasel.’

  Almost tenderly he laid the bones on the side of the ditch and put his raw hands into the mud to pull out more.

  ‘Well, that was stuck in one overflow pipe,’ he congratulated himself, as the water began to run more fiercely and the level went down. If only the wind would stop, or the stinging rain that lashed his cheeks. It was impossible to see what he was doing. He worked on blindly, and where the tears of cold stopped and the raindrops began he did not know.

  ‘They can stuff this bit of farming,’ he told himself, as he wiped his wet nose with an ever wetter hand.

  The one constant joy of farming was that the sun dictated the hours. Tam worked on until he was in danger of cutting off his legs in the dark, then he pulled himself out of the ditch, shouldered his spade and his axe, and set off for the cottage where he and Nellie had set up home after their ne’erday wedding in the wee kirk. One family’s tragedy was another wee family’s good luck. There were tied cottages available, and work for man and wife to go with them. Nellie cleaned twice a week for the school teacher, who did not mind Jimmy as long as he neither heard nor saw him; and Tam struggled along at Tam Menmuir’s side and tried to learn and love an alien way of life.

  The curtains were open so that the firelight danced out to meet him. Nellie would draw the curtains only once her man had found his way home. Tam shivered as the icy water ran down his neck and his frozen feet squelched in the pools lying in the soles of his boots, but he kept his eyes on the glow from his home.

  He opened the door and there was Nellie.

  ‘Och, Tam love, ye’re frozen. Come on to the fire. Jings, man, look at yer hands: they’re bleedin’ with the cold.’

  Tam closed the door to shut out the rain and leaned against it, as he eased off his sodden boots. The warmth from the fire hurt his hands and the wood smoke caught in his throat and eyes. Jimmy appeared from the kitchen, his nightgown trailing the ground and his fat little arms holding some protesting kittens, who were mostly upside-down.

  ‘Put the kitties down, laddie, afore they scratch you. No, don’t come to Daddy till I’m dry. And what have you and Mammy done the day?’

  ‘Ach, we’ve had a lovely day at home just the two of us, Tam, while you were out there in that. Can ye smell that stew? There’s rabbit in that, and a pigeon.’

  Tam sat and watched the steam rise from his socks and he laughed at Nellie as she laboured over his poor, calloused hands.

  ‘Them’s a working man’s hands, Nellie Bains Sinclair, no a fancy school teacher’s lily-whites. They’re perfect for dandling wee laddies and cuddling big lassies.’

  ‘You be sure it’s only the one lassie, Tam Sinclair,’ said Nellie, putting away the ointment. ‘Noo, is that no better? How are you feelin, love?’

  Tam smelled the stew and the fire, and he looked round the front room with its box bed and its dresser containing Nellie’s granny’s best plates. He saw his son rolling among the kittens on the rag rug and he saw the love in Nellie’s eyes.

  ‘Will I tell you what I feel, Mistress Sinclair? I feel something I thought I had lost for ever in the hell-holes of France. I found it in the hell-holes of Angus: wasnae there more than enough water to float it back to me? I feel happy, Nellie, just plain happy.’

  Nellie lifted Jimmy, who had twice rolled against the fireguard, and he protested loudly.

  ‘Jimmy Sinclair, you’ll bring this hoos aboot oor ears. Time he had a brother, Tam Sinclair,’ she suggested archly. ‘He’s spoiled. Mrs Menmuir’s got him as fat as a Christmas pig with her baking, and here’s you thinkin the sun rises and sets on his heid.’

  ‘Brawest sight in the world, Nellie lass, a healthy, happy bairn. Mind you, two healthy, happy bairns would tak a lot of beatin’. We’ll just have to grin and bear it, lassie, until we’re sure his brother is well started.’

  ‘Let’s get you warm and dry and fed, Tam Sinclair, afore ye start your grinnin’ or ocht else.’

  *

  In the West End of Dundee Mrs Murray Gow, née Emily Simpson, was feeling very happy too. Her star was in the ascendant. Murray, her husband of eleven months, two weeks and three days, who had shone at the Harris Academy, had been promoted to manager of the bank and had also become an elder of the kirk. Only this morning he had told her that he thought they might move in a year or two to Barnhill. Barnhill! A detached house would need at least two maids and a gardener – Murray could not dig potatoes after a day spent sorting Dundee’s finances. She would ask Pa – discreetly – to get them the latest in sanitary conveniences. If Murray continued to do well, Pa might even be able to move his own plumbing business from the Hilltown. Not that there was anything wrong with the Hilltown – fine people, all of them.

  She sat in the waiting room to see dear Dr Braithwaite. She was not quite ready to announce that she and Murray were to be blessed . . . So difficult – everyone would know that she and Murray, well . . . It was an act sanctioned by the church, but better that no one knew just yet. Better that the neighbours dwelt on the sterling work that she and Murray had done during the war and on the wonderful fund-raising she was doing for those poor soldiers who had given their all, or nearly their all – they were coming back, after all. And she was there twice a week with solid half-crowns, clean boots and changes of clothes. That nasty man who had yelled that he didn’t need charity, he needed a job, had been so misguided. But she had forgiven him, and had smiled understandingly as she had picked up the half-crown from the corner where it had rolled. She returned it to the pile, waiting for the next unemployed veteran – and the next, and the next.

  ‘Mrs Gow, doctor will see you now.’

  The starched nurse knew who she was. Emily bowed at her slightly and rose to follow her into Dr Braithwaite’s consulting room.

  ‘Wait a minute. This isn’t the way to the doctor’s rooms.’

  The nurse turned. ‘Dr Braithwaite has an emergency at the Royal, Mrs Gow. He asked Dr Currie to see you.’

  Emily stood quite still where all the waiting patients could see and hear her.

  ‘Currie? Not Dr Flora Currie?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Gow, but Dr Currie is even more qualified in obstetrics than Dr Braithwaite. That was one of the many reasons why he hired her.’

  Emily could not believe her ears. Obstetrics – the nurse had given her business away. How mortifying! Not only that, but she was to be seen by a woman doctor, and one whose name featured in the less salubrious papers. Should she make a stand now? Was it time to show Dundee that Emily Gow was not like other women? Yes, it was. It would be painful to make a scene, but one had one’s principles. ‘Make me another appointment,’ she said rather too loudly and a teeny bit squeakily, because she was not, at heart, a fighter. ‘I have, after all, another six months to go. Quite frankly, nurse, I’m surprised that dear Dr Braithwaite hasn’t fired that . . . that scarlet woman.’

  The nurse was angry. ‘Mrs Gow, please!’

  ‘I did not want the dear doctor to hire a woman doctor. How unfeminine to wish to be a medical person – so unladylike. But that he continues to sponsor someone who figures so luridly in the less professional press shocks me.’

  The other patients were beginning to look embarrassed, worried or angry,
and Flora had come out of her office to see what was causing the delay.

  Emily saw her and, although she would have preferred to have attacked without her victim’s knowledge, did not draw back.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Currie, but everyone is talking about it. I know the papers say that dear Lord and Lady Inchmarnock are not to divorce, but I have heard it from a friend of mine who saw you last Christmas at a very – well, quite frankly – a very working-class party.’ She stopped for a second in embarrassment. What was her friend doing at such a party? ‘It was a function that my friend attended mainly to keep on pleasant terms with all her neighbours, and you were seen, deny it if you dare, kissing Lord Inchmarnock.’

  Flora stared at her in horror. Should she deny it? Should she say that she and Sandy were childhood friends? Should she ignore it? The papers speculated constantly about the Inchmarnocks. Grief-stricken peer seeks solace had been one rather kind headline. What would they be like when the divorce actually came through . . .? Even in the twentieth century divorce was looked upon as almost more abhorrent than murder. Sometimes excuses were found for murderers.

  ‘I shall find another physician,’ finished Emily grandly and she swept out.

  Flora watched as two, then three other patients rose. ‘I’m sorry, doctor,’ said one as she passed. ‘I just can’t afford to be associated with anything not quite nice.’

  Me neither, thought Flora as, with her heart plummeting into her expensive leather shoes, she ushered in her last remaining patient. No man and no career either, if things continue like this.

  ‘Come on, Dr Currie,’ whispered her patient. ‘I think you’re the best doctor in Dundee and I need you to help me birth a live baby this time.’

  Flora smiled down at the girl who had suffered three miscarriages in as many years.

  ‘That’s what’s important, Sarah, my dear. And we’ll do it this time, together.’

  *

  After she had examined young Mrs Black and sent her happily on her way home, Flora had time to sit down and write to Sandy Fotheringham, but she did not mention the problems with her patients. Poor old Sandy, she felt, had more than enough problems of his own. He was determined to be a free man and had gone off promising to let her know the outcome of his attempts to give his wife due cause for divorce. It all seemed so sordid and hopeless, and sometimes Flora wondered if it was worthwhile. She loved Sandy, she always had, but she had lived without him for a long time. She was no longer a giddy young thing. She had her work and the ache in her heart no longer bothered her. At least, she was very little aware of it.

  She posted her letter on the way back to Blackness Road and then waited patiently for a reply. Sandy did not write or telephone. He arrived himself and they went out to a hotel for dinner.

  ‘It was so sordid, Flora. The woman reeked of cheap perfume and the room . . . peeling wallpaper, damp patches, cigarette burns and such tawdry finery.’

  He looked at Flora, so clean, so elegant somehow, even though he could see she never really made an effort. It was just Flora, just the way her bones allowed the clothes to drape themselves over her as if they had been made there, her hair going grey and being allowed to show its dignity. He thought of his wife and of how much time she spent adorning her face and her person. The results were beautiful, but contrived. Here was a real woman. Not like that ghastly woman in the hotel. She had had the audacity to laugh at him – not out loud, but he had known she was laughing.

  ‘This is all dreadfully embarrassing.’ How stupid he had felt saying that, but the words had burst out before he could control them.

  Sandy Fotheringham, Lord Inchmarnock, had looked around the hotel bedroom and had barely repressed a grimace of distaste. It was a hotel that had never before known his patronage and certainly never would again. He could hardly believe the seediness of the décor or the rank atmosphere.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ God, what a fool he felt. He had absolutely no idea of what steps one took.

  The lady in the scarlet and black négligé pouted at him. ‘Come on, darlin’, you’ve surely been to bed with a woman before.’

  That was not the kind of flippant remark that was calculated to endear her to her unwilling customer. ‘Please, let’s not make this any more distasteful than it has to be.’

  ‘Sorry, love,’ said the woman. What was her name? Miss Lulu-Belle de Chastelaine. In other circumstances he might have laughed. ‘Look, it’s a job. You want a divorce, or your lady wife wants one. I need the money. Slip off your dressing gown and get into bed. For pity’s sake, I won’t bite. I get in beside you, snuggle up, make it look a bit compromising. Bob takes the pic, gives it to your wife, who weeps over it and shows it to your nice expensive lawyers – and that’s it. D.I.V.O.R.C.E. and you free to marry. Couldn’t be easier.’

  Sandy did as he was bid. It was all so sordid. Why could they not end the marriage in a dignified and civilized manner? Hadn’t he come across an anthropological record somewhere that said divorce was achieved by saying three times, ‘I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee’? That seemed eminently civilized to him.

  Miss de Chastelaine slipped into the bed beside him and manoeuvred her not inconsiderable weight closer to Sandy. She looked at him adoringly, the door burst open and there was a loud flash, the smell of powder and the door closed again.

  Sandy threw off the girl. ‘That wasn’t how it was supposed to be. That wasn’t the photographer I met earlier.’

  Lulu-Belle lay back on the pillows and reached for her cigarettes. She lit one, inhaled heavily and blew smoke at him through her mascara-laden eyelashes. ‘Sorry, darlin’, but a girl’s got to think of herself. You’re the answer to a prayer, you are. That picture, which will appear in all the papers tomorrow, is my passport to at least six months on the West End – well, just off, near as makes no difference. You’ll still get your divorce, of course – or at least her ladyship will. We looked you up, Mr Fotheringham. You know what they say about need, ours being greater than yours and all. No hard feelings?’

  *

  In the elegant Dundee hotel dining room Flora looked at him and smiled. Poor Sandy. She saw seediness and tawdriness every day. He had got off lightly, but still, he had been fooled and cheated. He had not known that Miss de Chastelaine was a third-rate actress: but he should have known, with a name like that.

  She removed one of the pile of newspapers from the table in front of her. ‘Some of my patients have been bringing these tabloids in. This one says, “The beautiful Bella” – and she is lovely, Sandy—’

  ‘Good heavens, Flora, how can you say that? So, so . . .’ He was lost for words.

  Flora ignored the interruption. ‘. . . has a contract at the Variety, but has vowed never to open her heart about your affair. How noble of her!’

  He had had enough of jokes at his expense, even from Flora. ‘Dash it, Flora, I never set eyes on her before that day.’

  ‘I know,’ she said simply and she smiled at him. Then her face changed and became sad and Sandy did not like what he saw.

  ‘But you have to face that this changes things, Sandy my dear, for both of us. You’ve become a dashing blade and I’ve become a notorious woman. Everyone knows it’s a set-up, but they think it was done because we are . . . involved.’

  ‘But that’s nonsense.’

  ‘I know it. You know it. But please try to think rationally. Forget your wounded pride and the humiliation, and think clearly. My reputation has to be whiter than white, Sandy. My authority depends on it. My patients don’t want to be treated by a scarlet woman.’

  He stood up angrily and walked over to the window. Outside, the garden was full of Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums, serviceable flowers but no less lovely for that. For a moment a picture of the scarlet, brown and yellow colours that the house at Inchmarnock wore in the autumn blotted out the Dundee streets and the pain gripped him, as it always did.

  He turned again to look at her and held out h
is hands. Flora went to him and they leaned close together, each taking comfort from the presence of the other. The small private dining room was empty but for themselves, but their need for each other was so great that, had it been full of other diners, it is doubtful they would even have noticed.

  ‘I’ve thought and thought, my darling, and it seems to me that Fate, in the person of the delectable Miss Lulu-Belle, has stepped in. There is no reason to wait now. Julia can divorce me as quickly as she likes. She will have everyone’s sympathy. “Heartless bounder, not enough that she has to lose her child, but old Sandy gets himself involved in a scandal.” We can move away, Flora. Even with the proceeds of the house sale going to Julia, I have far too much money.’ He held her away from him and looked into her compassionate, understanding eyes. ‘Some would say the war was good to me; there’s irony for you. You don’t need your patients, Flora. Marry me and you’ll never have to work again. You can snap your fingers at all the narrow little minds that revel in the misery of others.’

  ‘That doesn’t describe my patients, Sandy. Oh, some of them have been quick to judge, but I’m never surprised by human nature. I want to marry you. This . . . unpleasantness won’t make me change my mind, but . . . Oh, darling Sandy, I never really thought about the commitment I am making to you. I’m a doctor, and there are people who depend on me. Please, dear, don’t interrupt. I know there are other doctors, but patients don’t see things that way when they are frightened. There are people I have to help through things – birth, death . . . I can’t just abandon them, not without warning. Give me some time. Give us both some time – for you to be divorced, to finish the sale, for this appalling nonsense to die a natural death. I’m asking you to go away, Sandy . . .’

  He could hardly believe what he was hearing. To go away. She wanted him to go away. Where could he go without Robert, without her, that would not plunge him into everlasting misery? His son, his bright little boy, was horribly dead, and Sandy had climbed out of his grief, taking comfort in the knowledge of Flora’s friendship and then her love. And now . . .’