The House of Lyall

by Doris Davidson

  Ruairidh sighed again. ‘It’s just that one thing she has a blockage about. She even worries about Dorrie being tainted and passing the madness on to any son she has – not that there’s any chance of that till the war’s over.’ He straightened his back and concentrated on this new topic. ‘Things are looking a bit brighter for us at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, but Monty was the man for the job. I don’t know why Ike was made over-all commander.’

  ‘Um … I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I know you won’t let it go any further. I’ve heard on the grapevine that we’re gearing up for the big push.’

  Robert gave a derisive snort. ‘That rumour’s been going round for ages now.’

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see, then, but it can’t come soon enough for me. I haven’t anyone close in the forces, but the past four years have seemed like four centuries.’

  ‘It’s the parents and sweethearts of the boys who are away fighting … it must be hell for them.’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ the laird said morosely. I had a brother in the last war, remember, and he didn’t come back.’

  ‘Oh Lord, I’m sorry, Ruairidh! I didn’t meant to upset –’

  ‘I know you didn’t, but it’s the kind of grief that never leaves you. Mother has never been the same since that telegram was delivered, although losing Ranald brought her and Father closer together.’

  Seeing the pain in his friend’s eyes, Robert wished fervently that he had not opened his big mouth.

  Melda felt compelled to talk about her daughter, although her mother-in-law would not have been her first choice as confidante. ‘I don’t know what to say to Dorrie. She hasn’t heard from Archie for weeks now, and neither has his sister. Phyllis keeps saying he can’t have been killed otherwise she’d have heard, but Dorrie never speaks about him. It’s not good for her to keep it bottled up, is it?’

  Marianne clicked her tongue. ‘No, she’d be better if she got it out.’ She hesitated for a second, then said, ‘I don’t think he was the right one for her, anyway.’

  Melda was outraged. ‘Yes, I know you’ve had an ill will against him all along, just because he’s a minister, but poor Dorrie really loves him.’ She turned away before she told the old woman what she thought of her and her obsession. There was nothing for Dorrie to do but wait, and Phyllis Mathieson had promised to let them know the minute she heard anything.

  Only two days later, when the minister’s wife came to the castle, Melda knew it was bad news before Phyllis even opened her mouth. ‘Archie hasn’t been killed, has he?’ she asked anxiously.

  The woman nodded tearfully. ‘I promised to let Dorrie know if … I heard anything. I won’t stop … You’ll understand I can’t talk …’ She whipped round and walked away.

  Melda was left feeling completely at a loss. She hadn’t had a chance to say how sorry she was, to try to give comfort … and how could she break it to Dorrie? What should she say? She could remember how she had felt when she’d learned about Rannie, and she hadn’t really known whether she loved him or not. She looked up as Marianne came into the room, and in her despair, let fly at her. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know Archie Grassie’s been killed!’

  ‘Oh!’ Marianne’s hand flew to her heart. ‘That’s a cruel thing to say. I admit I didn’t care for the idea of Dorrie marrying him, but I would never have wished him dead. Poor girl!’

  ‘I don’t know how to tell her.’

  ‘Do you want me to …?’

  Melda shook her head. ‘It’s up to me, but I am not relishing the thought of it.’

  The girl took it better than any of them had thought, weeping for only a very short time and then saying she wanted to be on her own and going up to her room. None of them was surprised, however, that she did not appear the following day, and it was the day after that before she came down for something to eat. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face was puffed, her movements were slow and unsteady, but her voice was firm. ‘I’m going to London.’

  ‘What?’ her mother, father and grandmother exclaimed almost in unison.

  ‘I’m going to London,’ she repeated. ‘You’ll manage fine without me at the mill, and I want to make use of what I learned at University, so I’m going to volunteer for the ambulance service.’

  ‘You don’t need to go to London for that,’ Ruairidh pointed out. ‘You could be somewhere much nearer home.’

  ‘I want to be in the thick of it,’ she said, looking round at them defiantly, although tears were glistening in her eyes. ‘I have to do something to … keep my mind off …’ Her voice broke.

  Her father would have argued, but her mother laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Are you sure that is what you want to do?’

  ‘Positive!’ She looked directly at Ruairidh. ‘I’m old enough now not to need your permission.’

  He nodded sadly. ‘Yes, of course you are, and I will not stand in your way. I shall have the house in Piccadilly made ready for you to use any time you need it.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  Only two days later, Dorothea Bruce-Lyall was in London, volunteering as an ambulance driver, and Melda’s life revolved around her daughter’s letters.

  The Allies had eventually gained a proper toehold in Normandy when the last of the ‘war-babes’ was delivered. As Campbell Scott, the dominie, remarked, ‘This school is going to burst at the seams in five years.’

  Contrary to what Marianne had feared, there had been very little scandal, because almost every girl had been involved in some way with the ever-changing series of lusty fresh-faced youths who had invaded the glen. In some cases, the boys had done the initiating, but in just as many, the girls had made the running. The women – except those who were too old and withered to be interested – had gone for the more mature men, the NCOs and officers, who were every bit as avid for sex as the rank and file. So it would have been the pot calling the kettle black if any snide remarks had been passed. They were all in the same boat – with the exception of the wives of the dominie, the doctor, the minister and the laird, who, although they may have been tempted, had foregone the pleasure – and many of them were dreading the day when their husbands or boyfriends would come home.

  ‘The end of the war’s going to be the telling time,’ Marianne remarked to Flora Mowatt.

  ‘The telling time?’

  ‘The day of reckoning. Quite a few men will be coming home to find their wives have had children by somebody else. There’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘So there should be,’ Flora said grimly. ‘When a woman marries, she pledges herself to her husband for life.’

  ‘And he pledges himself to her,’ Marianne retorted drily, ‘and I bet most of them have been having a high old time with the mademoiselles and Fräuleins, yet they’ll hit the roof about their wives being unfaithful to them.’

  ‘What would you have done if you thought Hamish had been unfaithful to you?’

  Marianne shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have been too happy, but if he’d made another son, I’d have forgiven him.’

  The doctor’s wife shook her head. ‘I couldn’t be like that. If I thought Robert had made love to another woman, I’d want to kill him … then I’d kill myself.’

  ‘To be honest,’ Marianne admitted, ‘I’d have been pleased in one way and angry in another. It must be terrible to know you’ve been betrayed. Still, there’s not much fear of Ruairidh going off the straight and narrow. Nor Robert,’ she added hastily.

  Melda’s fears were to be realized more quickly than she had imagined. Only seven short weeks and five short letters after Dorrie’s departure, they received the official notification of her death. The officer in charge, the man who must have written a number of similar communications, praised her sterling work, her bravery and dedication in even the most horrendous of air raids, but there really was no easy way for him to tell them. Dorrie had apparently been helping to rescue some children in a building next door to one which had received a direct hit, when a
wall caved in on top of her. It had taken several hours for them to get her out, but mercifully, the letter went on, she had not suffered. She had died instantly.

  Melda did not believe this, but, as she pointed out to her husband, it was kind of the man to try to shield them from the truth. Once again, as at the time of Ranald’s death, they clung to each other for comfort, and although their inevitable coupling was perhaps not so ardent as it had been then, it still afforded them some solace.

  Feeling somewhat excluded, Marianne went to talk to Flora Mowatt. ‘They’ve no time for me,’ she complained. ‘I miss Dorrie just as much as they do.’

  Flora patted her hand. ‘Of course you do, Marianne, dear, but she was their daughter.’

  After a moment’s thought, Marianne said, ‘Yes, I can see the point you’re making. When we lost Ranald, Hamish and I were like young lovers again. I wouldn’t have come through that if it hadn’t been for him … and now I’ve nobody.’

  ‘Don’t get maudlin, my dear, it doesn’t suit you.’ Flora knew how to treat her old friend. ‘You have Robert and me, and all the people in Glendarril know how you are feeling and sympathize.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. You’re right. I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself, when so many of the people in the glen have lost somebody, too.’

  ‘I know it’s little comfort, but time does heal, and until it does, we must carry on as usual.’

  Time did eventually not heal, exactly, but blunt the edge of the Bruce-Lyalls’ grief, and life went on, though not quite the same as before.

  The people of Glendarril did not bring 1945 in with their usual vigour. All reports from the war fronts grew more encouraging by the day, and what Marianne had called the ‘telling time’ – the day of reckoning – was looming ever closer for those women who had taken their pleasure where they could, which is how she thought of them, although Robert Mowatt regarded them as poor unfortunates. But, whichever way they judged themselves, the women understood that Nemesis was about to catch up with them, and the doctor was kept busy prescribing pills and powders for ailments brought on by nerves.

  At precisely six o’clock on 8 May, the day on which Churchill had announced the end of hostilities, Robert took an unprecedented step. Having heard the steady tramp of feet going round to the side door, he thought dismally that he’d be lucky if he finished consulting by bedtime, and when he entered the waiting room to summon his first patient, he could have screamed. The place was filled to capacity! A second glance, however, told him that there was not one man there, and a marvellous idea struck him. They were all suffering from the same guilt and anxiety because their sins would soon be laid bare, so why shouldn’t he attempt mass treatment?

  ‘Good evening, ladies!’ he boomed, smiling to hide his nervousness. ‘We all know why so many of you are here tonight, and it seems to me that, rather than see each of you individually, it would be much quicker if I just talked to you here to let you see how futile it is to worry about something which nothing can change.’

  A sign of unrest, accompanied by a low murmur, made him hasten on. ‘Yes, I do realize that your men will be back shortly, and some of you have good reason to fear your husband’s reaction to what you did, but I am practically sure that every man will be so glad to be home that he’ll … if not exactly excuse you, at least accept the child he knew nothing about. Of course, he is bound to be angry at first, and it’s up to you to make it up to him, to show him such love as you have never shown him before. Tell him how sorry you are, and that it happened because you missed him so much, and if he is still angry and threatens to leave you, assure him, through your tears, that you can not live without him any longer. Turning on the waterworks usually works – I know.’

  He was relieved to see them looking hopefully at each other. ‘You are wondering if my advice will work, and it may not in all cases, but surely you must be willing to try anything to keep your man? You must think calmly over what to say, no counteraccusations no matter what you suspect, and I feel certain the situation will ease. One word of warning, however. Do not, whatever the provocation, hint that he is not as good a lover as the child’s father was. That would be fatal! Now, I’ll leave you to talk about it, but I will be in the surgery for another half-hour if any of you want to see me privately. My advice would still be the same, and for those who say they can’t sleep for worrying, a couple of aspirins is all you need.’

  He had almost left the room when he hesitated and turned. ‘They won’t be demobilized straight away, you know, and it will be time enough to worry when you hear when your man will be home. Good night, ladies. I hope everything works out for you, but if it gets sticky, remind him that you weren’t the only one to make a mistake. There must be hundreds, even thousands all over the world.’

  The homecomings were spread over some months, and it was almost 1947 before the last stragglers arrived home, those who had been prisoners of war, those who had been in the fight against the Japanese. Oddly, they were the least upset about their womenfolk’s infidelity. They were so glad to be home in one piece, to sit at their own firesides again, that nothing else mattered. Only a small minority of the rest went as far as breaking an engagement or ending a marriage, possibly, human nature being what it is, those who had also misbehaved, and who, for all they knew, may have left living souvenirs behind them.

  As the doctor had hoped, most married life soon returned to normal and there followed a spate of legitimate pregnancies to keep him and the midwife busier than ever – the postwar baby boom, the bulge!

  For the family at the castle, though, there was no home-coming to celebrate, and it very much looked as if there would be no more Bruce-Lyall babies ever again.

  PART THREE

  1955

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  It had been a long day, and Ruth Laverton was glad to sit down by the bed. Her mother was dozing at the moment, but likely not for very long. She had a knack of sleeping off and on in the afternoons and evenings and being awake all night, which wouldn’t be so bad, Ruth mused, if she could also have a rest during the day. It was the lack of sleep that got her down.

  She looked wryly at the pillow cases on her lap. She had noticed when she was ironing that the housewife openings were burst at the seams and she had meant to sew them, but, oh God, not right now! She would have to close her eyes for a wee while; they were stinging with tiredness.

  The coals in the grate were glowing comfortably, but she’d have to be careful not to fall asleep and let the fire go out. The doctor had warned that she mustn’t let her patient get cold. Her patient, she thought sadly. This was the woman who had borne her, who had struggled to bring her and her young sister up decently after their father died. She had worked her fingers to the bone for them, going out cleaning to keep them fed properly, doing without things herself in order to buy clothes for them. She deserved to be nursed with all the love she could get … for as long as she needed it.

  No resentment, no bitterness. Her elder daughter mustn’t think of it as a duty she was forced to carry out. She must look on it as a privilege and be glad to be given the chance to show her gratitude for all that her mother had done for her. It would help, though, if Gladys did a bit more to help, even if she just popped in for an hour every day. Of course, she always had an excuse why she couldn’t – she had to wait in for the man to read her gas meter, or the electric meter; or she had to take up a hem on the new dress she had bought for Bob’s firm’s dinner dance, as well as pressing his suit and ironing a white shirt for him. They were always going out to enjoy themselves and she had a bottomless pit of excuses, but give her her due, she did sit with Mum for an hour every Saturday afternoon to let her sister do some shopping … but only because Bob was a football fan who went to Pittodrie every week whether it was the first team who were playing a home match, or the reserves or the schoolboys. But she shouldn’t criticize, Ruth told herself. Gladys had a husband to look after, whereas she …

  She heaved a long-drawn-out si
gh. If she’d still had Mark, it would have been different. She should have known he wouldn’t settle down to a dull job after the war, but she had loved him so much she didn’t let him see how much she missed him when he became a long-distance lorry driver. She had Colin to look after, their beautiful son who was still only a toddler when his father was killed in a road accident on a French road in 1947. They had been married for just six years, a wartime wedding, and had been in their council house for less than eighteen months.

  She had been so shocked that it seemed a good idea to move back in with her mother, who looked after Colin while she went out to work … until the poor woman was diagnosed as having multiple sclerosis. The illness progressed slowly at first, still leaving her able to care for the small boy, but then it speeded up until she was completely bedridden and needed constant attention. She’d had to give up her own job to look after her, and there had just been the two widows’ pensions coming in; there was no family allowance for an only child. Now there was this second illness, the most dreaded of all.

  Becoming conscious that her fingernails were digging into her palms, Ruth inhaled deeply and tried to relax as she let the breath edge out, then rising quietly, she lifted the poker and stirred the fire. When she straightened and caught sight of herself in the overmantel mirror, her hand went to her heart in dismay. She was only thirty-six, but her reflection was that of a woman well into her fifties. Her auburn hair was lank, her cheeks were wan and hollow. There were dark circles under her eyes, the eyes Mark used to call ‘cerulean blue’ but were now faded and almost blank. What did it matter, she thought. Nobody saw her except her mother and sister; her brother-in-law didn’t bother to come in any more – Gladys had even stopped apologizing for him dropping her off on his way to somewhere else. Sitting down again, she couldn’t help thinking that Bob Mennie was selfish to the very core.