And the Land Lay Still

by James Robertson

  She did. The surgeon’s wife, Mrs Cotter, was English and glamorous and wore tartan trousers and a cashmere jumper, neither of which had come out of a jumble sale, and spoke like a film star as she showed Liz around the house, from top to bottom. This took about twenty minutes without dawdling. The bedrooms, six of them, were enormous. There were three bathrooms: one for the Cotters, an en-suite in the main guest room, and one for the children when they were back from their schools. Plus a downstairs cloakroom and a lavvy, beside the laundry room, which Mrs Cotter very diplomatically indicated was the one Liz should use if she had to. There was a ‘small’ sitting room bigger than any room in the Lennies’ house, and what Mrs Cotter referred to as the ‘drawing room’ contained, among other things, a baby grand piano, two three-seater sofas, two massive armchairs and a fireplace you could have roasted a sheep in. The dining room gleamed with an array of silver candlesticks, wine coasters, napkin rings and cutlery, which Mrs Cotter would like cleaned once a fortnight. As they went through each room she pointed out the things she particularly wanted to be washed or dusted or polished on a regular basis. They finished in the ultra-modern kitchen where Mrs Cotter made coffee and offered Liz a biscuit.

  It seemed they’d hit it off. Liz was just what Mrs Cotter was looking for, and the fact that she was from the village, a friend of her neighbour’s cleaner – well, it couldn’t be better. Would she take the same hourly rate? Liz said yes, having established from Betty that the rate was four shillings an hour. How many hours a week, Liz asked, did Mrs Cotter want her to come in? Mrs Cotter looked at the ceiling as if calculating the rooms in a column above her head: she thought three hours on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays would seem about right. Could Liz manage that? Liz did her own calculation. That was nearly two pounds a week and even with the size of the place and the amount of silver and ornaments and polishing the brass door handles and scrubbing the baths till they dazzled and beating rugs and vacuuming the acres of carpet she couldn’t imagine how she was going to fill the nine hours. Aye, she said. Yes, that would be fine. And Mrs Cotter said that was settled then, with a beautiful smile, and explained that she’d always be there at nine o’clock to let Liz in but would she mind sometimes being left on her own, and locking up when she’d finished, because she herself intended to play golf every Wednesday, went shopping most Fridays and often had other commitments on a Monday? Liz said she’d not mind.

  And Don, to her surprise, didn’t mind either. She’d assumed he would resist the idea but the only thing he couldn’t get his head round was that the Cotters had five different places to go for a shit. He thought the job would do her good, and it was handy, so why not?

  She started the following week. Before long she felt she’d been working there for years. Mrs Cotter continued to be charming and on the rare occasions she was still there when Liz’s three hours were up she sat and drank coffee with her. She expressed her extreme happiness with the quality of Liz’s work. Mr Cotter was hardly ever home. When he was, he smiled and said, ‘How are you?’ as if she might be one of his patients. She suspected he spoke to his children in the same tone. The children were so polite and so careful not to get in her way during the school holidays that she sometimes forgot they were there. It was all more than tolerable, but what Liz loved most was when she was alone in the house. Then the three hours went fast enough. They filled her with a weird kind of delight. She’d pause beside the piano and touch a key and hear the note absorbed by the room and wonder at the tranquillity of the rest of the house, the gentle creak of old floorboards, the quiet tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, the light that flooded in through the bay windows, and outside the sweep of the front lawn and the grandeur of the lovely trees. She’d stand at an upstairs window and the view was so spectacular she had to tell herself, out loud, to get on with her work. Mrs Cotter had said she was welcome to have the radio on but why would she, when what she valued was the silence, the emptiness of the house, the fact that for those hours she alone held it in trust? In short, she loved her job.

  And then there was the money, which Mrs Cotter left on the kitchen table for her every Friday, the pound note and the ten-shilling note and the two half-crowns and the shilling, always the same every week. She put them in her purse and was tempted to skip down the road. But the road led her past the Gordons’ old house, occupied now by people she didn’t know, and she walked by and couldn’t help thinking of Don and his lost friend Jack, and Billy and his rediscovery of Barbara Gordon, and then she’d think of Charlie and was fearful for them all. What had happened to her and Don? What would happen to the boys? By the time she reached home something of the peace she got from cleaning Mrs Cotter’s house had dissipated, but enough would be left to carry her through the weekend, towards the precious hours she would have to herself the following week, in the big empty house on the hill.

  §

  Billy’s History teacher at Drumkirk Academy, Mr Blyth, was convinced Billy was clever and hard-working enough to justify him staying on to sit his Highers. He was capable, in other words, of going to university. He sent Billy home with a letter to this effect, and asked the Lennies to come in after school to discuss it.

  It was a big enough deal that Billy had passed the qualifying exam for Drumkirk Academy, the only senior secondary school in the area. The prospect offered by Mr Blyth was so much more serious that on the appointed day Don hurried home early to wash and put on his suit, while Liz got out the outfit she wore to funerals. Then it was back on the bus to Drumkirk.

  Mr Blyth, who seemed about half their age, was in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. He had sideburns like hedges and square, black-framed spectacles, and spoke as if he had a large pan-drop in his mouth but was pretending he hadn’t. He was, however, kind and patient as he talked them through the process. He had no doubt that Billy could achieve the grades necessary to gain him a university place. He understood that nobody from the family had ever been to university, and that therefore the prospect might be worrying or mysterious. An Honours degree in History, Billy’s best subject, or perhaps in Politics or Economics or a combination of them, would take four years – a big commitment for everybody. Nevertheless Mr Blyth couldn’t overemphasise what an opportunity it would be for Billy. He hoped the Lennies agreed.

  ‘What would he dae wi a History degree?’ Don asked. It was a genuine question, not a sceptical one. He wanted to know.

  ‘The obvious answer is he could do what I do – teach. I think he’d make a very good teacher. But let’s not narrow his options too soon. The thing about university, Mr Lennie, is that it opens the door to all kinds of possibilities. It’s not education for a particular job, it’s education for life. I know History doesn’t sound very practical, but I believe it is one of the best subjects for broadening the mind and preparing you for a whole range of careers. I happen to be a teacher, but others in my year went into accountancy, business management, journalism, broadcasting, publishing. With a degree under his belt, Billy could do anything.’

  A glow of anticipation spread under Don’s suit. That his son could do anything! That Billy’s options should not be narrowed too soon! It wasn’t that he particularly wanted Billy to be an accountant or a teacher. What he wanted was for him to have the choice.

  Liz said, ‘How much will it cost?’

  Mr Blyth explained. The government would pay the fees, so there was no need to worry about them. As for living expenses, students were entitled to a maintenance grant, but it was means-tested according to one’s circumstances. It depended on the income of one or both parents.

  ‘It’s only me that’s earning a wage,’ Don said. (They’d discussed this on the bus, both suddenly nervous that they didn’t declare Liz’s earnings to the taxman.)

  ‘I can’t tell you how much of a grant he’d receive,’ Mr Blyth said, ‘but I’m sure he would get something. Depending on where he went to study, he could continue to live at home, or he could stay away during term-time. Undoubtedly there would
have to be sacrifices, though.’ He blushed and cleared his throat. ‘I imagine your income is …’

  ‘It’s no bad,’ Don said. It sounded more defensive than he’d intended. ‘But that’s no the point. We’ll dae whatever it takes. Won’t we, Liz?’

  Liz nodded, frowning. ‘It’s a thought,’ she said.

  ‘It is indeed,’ Mr Blyth said, ‘which is why it’s necessary to start planning now. If it’s what you want, of course. I know it’s what Billy wants.’

  ‘We want the best for baith oor boys,’ Liz said. ‘But what if he …’ – she was struggling for the right words – ‘what if it disna work? If he disna finish?’

  Mr Blyth smiled. ‘You don’t have to worry on that score, Mrs Lennie. Billy may not stand out in a crowd, but he’s a sticker. If he gets this chance, he’ll not fail you. I guarantee it.’

  He was telling them things about their own son that they already knew. That Don knew, at any rate. It felt good, secure. He glanced at Liz and she gave him a smile that was at once encouraging and uncertain. She looked for a moment the way she used to when they were courting. It was one of those increasingly rare moments of understanding between them. The uncertainty was not on account of Billy. They were both thinking about Charlie.

  On the bus home, they talked it through. If it really was what Billy wanted, they wouldn’t stand in his way. If he did the work and passed the exams and was offered a place, they’d support him. How could they not? Liz said it might give him a new focus. Away from Barbara Gordon, she meant. If Billy went off to university, that might be the end of that.

  ‘Dae ye think he’ll end up speaking like yon Mr Blyth?’ she said.

  ‘Maybe he will,’ Don said. ‘Maybe looking like him tae.’

  ‘My God!’ Liz said, and she laughed. He took her hand. They sat on the bus, laughing together.

  §

  When things got difficult between Don and Charlie, or between Charlie and the village, Charlie took off for Drumkirk and stayed with his granny. This was a relief for everybody. He seemed genuinely fond of her, and she of him. He went for her messages. He kept her company. Maybe her vulnerability would be the thing that turned him around.

  But being in Drumkirk, and especially Granthill, brought him into contact with a harder, more dangerous crowd. His granny might like having him around, but that didn’t mean she was in control of where he went or who he was with.

  §

  At the end of the war there had been four shops in Wharryburn. Forbye the post office there had been a butcher’s, a draper’s, an ironmonger and Reid’s, the general store. One by one they’d closed till only the post office and general store were left. Then Reid’s was put up for sale and for a while there was no interest and everybody feared it too would go, but at last it was taken on by people called Khan. Some folk breathed a sigh of relief, because what would the village be without a village shop? Others weren’t so sure. They’d been hoping for the Co-operative, or just another family business like Reid’s, but the Khans, although they were a family, were not like the Reids at all. The Khans moved into the flat upstairs, it hadn’t been lived in for years but used for storage, and for a long time there was debris and chaos around the building as Mr Khan and various male relatives, who came and went in beaten-up old cars and vans, worked on making the flat habitable. Or rather, more habitable, because the family stayed there while all the repairs were going on. There were complaints about the mess and the noise but eventually the work was finished. Then the Khans started on the shop. People said, why do they need to rip everything out? Could they not just leave things the way they were when it was Reid’s? But that was the trouble, it wasn’t Reid’s any more, and there were mutterings about what it had become. Still, after another few weeks the refit was complete, and right enough it seemed bigger, had more stock, opened earlier and didn’t shut till eight, so surely that was all right? Did anybody still have a problem? ‘Aye, the wife hardly speaks ony English.’ ‘Mine neither,’ Don said when he heard that one in the Blackthorn. ‘Ye’re no sae hot at it yersel.’ ‘Aye, but if ye ask her onything complicated she has tae get her man, and if he’s no there, then what are ye supposed tae dae?’ ‘Come back later?’ Don suggested. ‘Aye, weel, but that’s no the point, is it?’ What was the point, exactly? The point was the pigment of the Khans’ skin. The well-meaning people called them ‘coloured’. Most folk called them Pakis, darkies. The shop had always been ‘the shop’ or ‘the store’ or ‘Reid’s’. Now it was ‘the Paki’s’.

  The Khans had a son and a daughter, eight and six. They went to the village school. They were bright, diligent pupils who did better in class than many of their peers. This did not endear them to some of the other parents, nor even to one or two of the teachers.

  Sometimes the fruit and veg in the Khans’ shop was, there was no disguising it, tired. Sometimes, especially on wet days, the floor of the shop was dirty. Sometimes the wrappers of chocolate bars and other sweets sold by the Khans were found littering the street. These things had also been true of Reid’s, but folk didn’t remember it that way. They made faces and tutting noises. ‘It shows ye.’ ‘What does it show ye?’ ‘It just shows ye.’

  Don bought his paper out of Mr Khan’s every day, on his walk to the bus stop. On Wednesdays there was the Drumkirk Observer too, full of nothing but Don bought it anyway, out of loyalty to the area, to Mr Khan and to Bill Drummond, who’d scrambled into a desk job at the Observer when the Gazette died in ’63. In the evening, if there was anything Liz was needing, Don or one of the boys, usually Billy, would go for it. Eggs, a slab of cheese, a tin of beans. At the weekend Don bought milk and rolls from Mr Khan. He almost wished he smoked so he could buy tobacco from him. Sellotape, shoelaces, shoe polish. They chatted away over the counter. Mr Khan was a round, bald man who looked like he should really have been a college lecturer, or maybe a doctor. There was something old-fashioned about him. He was quiet-spoken, but this was not to say he had no opinions. He had plenty and that was another thing some people didn’t like. He had views on football, Vietnam, the pill, the Russians, the Rolling Stones – not all of them what you might expect from a middle-aged Muslim businessman. He was always busy and often seemed weary but he made the time to talk, as if glad of an excuse to stop being a shopkeeper for a while. He’d been in Glasgow, before that Manchester, before that London. He’d come from Karachi with his father and mother and three brothers after Partition, when he was twenty. Before Karachi they had been in Delhi and were part of the mass movement of people between India and Pakistan, because they were Muslims and hadn’t felt safe in Delhi. So he had been a migrant all of his adult life and now he had settled in Wharryburn, where he spoke English with deliberate care and accuracy, with some of the intonations white people found it amusing to imitate. If there was a Manchester accent in there it had been overlaid with a Glaswegian one. If there was Glaswegian it was mixed with the strange vowels of England. This was another thing Don enjoyed about Mr Khan: the rich, rolling gutturals of his speech, and the way it moved across frontiers and continents.

  Mr Lennie said, ‘Please call me Don.’

  Mr Khan said, ‘Please call me Saleem.’

  §

  Like his brother, Charlie had passed the qualifying exam for Drumkirk Academy. Now he’d been there three years. The last two of these had been extremely difficult. The school said he didn’t apply himself. Furthermore, there was the question of his ‘attitude’.

  Liz and Don were summoned again, this time by the rector, an altogether more imposing, less friendly character than Mr Blyth. Charlie was a disappointment, the rector reported, a grave disappointment. It was not as if he were not capable: he would not be at the Academy had that been the case. He did not work, and when he was urged by his teachers to do so he responded with the bare minimum. The cause was not laziness but deliberate refusal verging on outright insolence. Worse, he had been playing truant. The rector spread three notes on the desk in front of Liz. ‘These were written
by his grandmother, I believe. Is this her handwriting?’ ‘Aye, it is,’ Don said. The rector said, ‘He has been seen in the town on at least one occasion when he was supposed to be sick. Perhaps you should speak to her about these notes.’ ‘Aye, we will,’ Don said, shamefaced, but he could feel Liz beginning to bridle beside him. ‘That in itself is serious enough,’ the rector said, ‘but when he does attend he is disruptive.’ ‘Disruptive?’ Liz said. ‘How?’ ‘His attitude infects the other pupils, some of the boys especially.’ ‘What’s that supposed tae mean?’ Liz demanded. ‘Ye make it sound like he’s got a disease.’ ‘I simply mean he affects the more impressionable boys, Mrs Lennie.’ ‘Ye said “infects”.’ The rector shrugged. ‘Infects, affects. The fact of the matter is, he is disruptive.’ ‘If he’s disruptive does he get the belt?’ ‘Not any more,’ the rector said. ‘How no?’ The rector flinched. ‘It had no effect. On the contrary, the fact that he took the belt with indifference had an effect opposite to that which was intended.’ Don saw that Liz was growing more annoyed at the man’s superiority, the convolutions of his grammar. ‘It made his malign influence even greater.’ Even Don bridled at the word ‘malign’. ‘We’re talking aboot a boy here, no a demon,’ he said. The rector pushed the objection aside. ‘The fact of the matter is, here we regard physical chastisement as a last resort. Frankly, your son’s behaviour is what I might expect from a boy enrolled at another school.’

  Don remembered getting the belt for everything. Not at Drumkirk Academy, which in the 1930s charged fees unless you were clever enough to win a scholarship, and so might as well have been on the moon for all the chance he had of getting there. His school education was over the minute he turned fourteen. The belt was a physical extension of almost every teacher, carried like a sleeping ferret over the shoulder. All the boys in his class were in regular contact with it: for every third spelling mistake in tests; for not enough correct sums; for cheek, which often meant inappropriate use of words like ‘dinna’ and ‘aye’. Sometimes he thought they were belted simply because they hadn’t been belted recently, to discourage complacency. But that had been then. Things had moved on. Nowadays, according to this pompous man, the belt was a weapon of last resort. The fact of the matter. Well, the fact of the matter was it hadn’t worked with Charlie. Thinking of the looks of defiance Charlie gave him, all the time now, Don could see why. The boy had absorbed every bit of physical punishment he’d been given, and it seemed only to have made him tougher. Part of Don admired that, but a bigger part was troubled by it. What made Charlie the way he was? Why did he set himself against the world?