Towards the end of January, Elspeth became numbly aware that her actions on the night of the storm in November and on the day she had spent at Blairton could not be kept secret much longer, but she was afraid to consult Doctor McLean in case he told her parents. Her mother would be angry, there was no doubt about that, for she’d be worried about what folk would say, but once she got over the shock she would shield her daughter as much as she could and see her through her time. It was what her father would do that made Elspeth shiver with fear. He could be cruel and unforgiving, and would likely throw her out into the street like the heroines in Nettie’s sister’s novelettes. She was desperately miserable, recalling the disgust of the local women when the dairymaid at Denseat had to leave in disgrace some months before. ‘Easy meat for anything in breeks,’ they had sneered, and it would be unbearable to have them saying things like that about her. Each morning, she forced herself to go to work, but could show no interest in anything, not even in the chit-chat that went on when Miss Fraser was out.
She could think of nothing but her own dilemma, a dilemma she knew was all of her own making, and the only thought she could dredge up to comfort herself was that John would surely be home in time to wed her before the baby was born.
Chapter Eight
Feeling quite out-of-sorts this February morning, Meg Forrest put it down to another sleepless night worrying about John, topped by Willie Mavor delivering only a bill from a cattle-feed company in Aberdeen. She couldn’t rid her body of the sense of being weighted down, as if her limbs were made of lead, and poured herself a cup of tea at half past eight to see if that would revive her.
She was still trying to summon up enough energy to go and feed the hens when someone rang the front door bell, and her heart turned over – all the usual callers knew to come round the back. It was young Davie McIntyre, in his telegraph boy’s uniform, which didn’t altogether surprise her – this was what her body had been preparing her for. When she stretched out to take the yellow envelope, the boy held on to it, murmuring uncomfortably, ‘I’d best get your man. I saw him in the near park.’
Meg was ice-cold when she returned to the kitchen. She knew, without having to read it, what the telegram would say. Hearing her husband’s heavy feet echoing rapidly on the stones in the yard, she turned to face him when he came running in, red-faced and breathless, and was surprised to see that the envelope in his hand was still unopened. Had he, too, known what it would contain? He did not even look at her as he ripped the side off and extracted the message inside, but one quick glance made his face blanch as though a bucket of whitewash had been thrown over it.
‘Oh, God,’ he groaned, ‘I was feared this is what it was. John was killed in action on the tenth.’ Staggering like a newly-blinded man, he collapsed on to the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands, so unaccustomed to showing such a private emotion as grief that it came from him in eerie, wailing moans.
Meg picked up the small sheet of paper which had fluttered to the floor, and studied the strips of words on it to make sure that he had read them all, but there was nothing other than the bald statement of John’s death. The blood-curdling sounds still emanating from her husband made her move to grip his shoulder, and he flung one arm out to encircle her waist. ‘Oh, Meg,’ he muttered, brokenly, ‘it’s me should be comforting you. I’m a poor kind o’ man letting go like this, but ... I ... I can’t help it. I’m ... sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s best you let it out,’ she soothed, stroking his head. ‘It’s only natural.’ Her own eyes were dry, for she had steeled herself not to give way to her sorrow. That could come later, when she was alone.
‘I was aye ... feared for this,’ he went on, ‘though I tried not to let you see. There’s been a weight on my heart since the very day he went to France.’
‘Aye, I know,’ she murmured, for she had felt the same.
‘When he told us about him and Geordie Gray’s lassie, I was that pleased. I was sure there would be grandsons to carry on Blairton when me and John was both away, but ...’ His lined face crumpled again. ‘Oh, Meg,’ he sobbed, ‘has God forsaken us?’
She had wondered that, too, but hastened to console him. ‘God didn’t take John, it was the Huns, and we’re not the only ones to lose a son. There’ll be a lot o’ sore hearts before this war comes to an end.’ She looked down at his tear-stained face compassionately. ‘Would you like a drop whisky to settle you?’
In answer to his mute nod, Meg took the bottle of Johnnie Walker and a small glass out of the press. She couldn’t get over how steady her hands were as she poured out the spirits – after the shock she had just received, she would have expected to be more affected, but she felt nothing except a heavy numbness. She was not surprised when her man downed the dram in one gulp, but took the glass from him and refilled it. This time, he sipped slowly, and gradually his colour came back and the hiccupping sobs grew less harsh.
He pushed the empty glass from him, shaking his head when she held up the bottle with her eyebrows raised. ‘Even if I drank the lot, I’d not feel better.’
But she knew that what he had drunk had helped him to regain his composure, for his breathing was easier, his eyes calmer. After a few minutes, he wiped his face with his handkerchief then blew his nose loudly. ‘I’m sorry, lass, but it come on me that quick. I’m over it now, and I’d best get back to what I was doing.’
She did feel a pang of resentment that he did not want to be with her in their time of trouble, but, when he reached the door, he turned with his hand on the knob. ‘I’ve got to keep working, lass,’ he said, sheepishly apologetic, ‘to take my mind off it.’
Left alone, she sat recalling little things about John. He’d been such a bonnie bairn, even when he was new-born, his dark thatch of curly hair so like his father’s. When he got up to any childish pranks, he had only to look up at her with his big brown eyes and she couldn’t chastise him, but he hadn’t been spoiled, though he was an only child. He had been a good bairn, always laughing and ... Her thoughts wavered. She would never see the mischievous twinkle in his eyes again, nor the way his nose crinkled just before a great burst of mirth came out. Oh, God, why?
Meg succumbed to her grief then, sobbing for the bairn who used to be, for the young man whose life had been cut so drastically short. During all the anxious hours she had spent at John’s bedside when he was small, seeing him through measles, scarlet fever, whooping cough, she had never imagined, not even in her wildest nightmares, that he would be taken from her in a war.
When her tears stopped, and she could think rationally, she remembered that she would have to let her brother know about John. She had never been that close to Tam – he was so much older than she was – but he was all the family she had, and Blairton himself had no brothers or sisters.
After the letter was written, she laid it on the dresser to be given to Willie Mavor the following morning to post for her, and sat down at the table again. Little incidents in her son’s short life kept coming back to her, things that only a mother would remember: his first day at school, when she had watched him set off on his chubby little legs to walk the two miles with some of the cottar bairns; his first bicycle, when he’d fallen off and skinned his knees so many times that she’d thought he would never learn to ride it; his fourteen-year-old pride in his first pair of long trousers, which had been ripped when he’d fallen coming home from church on the first day he’d worn them; disagreements with his father as he was growing up and the last big argument when Blairton had stopped him from going to Canada.
She had been sitting in the gloaming for some time before she realized how dark it was and rose to light the oil lamp. She had wanted Blairton to install gas, but he had said it would cost too much because they were so far from the village. It came to her then that her husband had not come back for any dinner, and that she hadn’t had any-thing to eat herself since early morning, so she stood up, wearily, to prepare a meal. Life had to go on – a semblance of
life, at any rate. It was not until she had put some Kerr’s Pinks in a basin that the appalling thought occurred to her. What about that poor lassie, Elspeth Gray? She wouldn’t have heard the tragic news yet, but it wouldn’t take long to filter through the grapevine of the close farming community, and it was up to Meg to break it to her first. She would have to write to Elspeth, too, and one of the men could cycle to the village tonight to post it, so that she would get it first thing in the morning.
Meg laid the basin in the sink and sat down again. Her hand was unsteady as she dipped the pen in the crystal inkstand and started to write. ‘Dear Miss Gray ...’
Lizzie regarded her daughter anxiously. ‘I think you must be sickening for something, Eppie, you’ve been looking that poorly. Take a day in your bed to shake it off, or go and ask the doctor for a bottle o’ something.’
‘I’m fine, Mother.’ Elspeth reflected sadly that no bottle could cure her ailment, and she couldn’t risk seeing the doctor. Listlessly, she struggled into her coat. It was cold, and still dark at seven in the mornings, although most of the February snow had disappeared except from the sides of the dykes, where it was ‘lying waiting for more’, as the country folk said.
A cruel north wind was blowing, and she shivered as she let down the latch of the gate. She had walked only a few steps along the road when a dark figure loomed up ahead of her and it flashed across her mind – could it be ...? – but before the hope had properly taken shape, she realized that this man was too short, too fat, and her disappointment almost choked her. She blinked as a powerful torch shone in her face.
‘Oh, it’s yourself, Elspeth,’ boomed a hearty, familiar voice.
‘Aye, Postie.’ She was about to pass when Willie Mavor thrust a slim envelope into her hand. ‘It’s for you, lass.’
‘Oh, thank you, Postie.’ Not worrying that it might make her late for work, she ran back inside to read the long-awaited letter, but found that it wasn’t John’s writing, after all, and the address at the top was Blairton Farm. Could Mrs Forrest have found out what she and John had done?
Dear Miss Gray,
This is a very difficult letter to write, but I felt it was up to me to let you know. John wrote and told me that he intended to wed you when he came home, but we got a telegram this morning saying that he has been killed in action, just a week short of his 21st birthday.
Elspeth’s sharp moan of despair made Lizzie run through from the back kitchen, drying her hands on her flowery overall. ‘I thought you were away ...’ she began, then saw her daughter’s stricken face. ‘What is it, Eppie?’
The girl, still reading, ignored her.
I am sure you loved him as much as me, and I would be pleased if you could come to Blairton as soon as it is convenient for you, so we can speak about him and help each other to get over it. Your sincere friend,
Margaret Forrest
Her sorrow too great even for tears, Elspeth handed the single page to Lizzie, who read the first paragraph then said, ‘Oh, my poor lamb!’ Gathering her daughter into her arms, she rocked her as she had done when she was a child seeking comfort for a scraped knee.
When Elspeth’s trembling lessened, she stepped back. ‘I’m going to have John’s bairn.’ It was as if that were nothing compared with what she had just learned, and she carried on in spite of her mother’s involuntary gasp. ‘And he never ken’t anything about it.’
‘So that’s it. I never thought ... how far on are you?’
‘Near three month.’ Even in her present state, Elspeth knew that things would be much worse for her if she told of the day she had spent at Blairton Farm. ‘It was the night he took me home in the storm and we were just ourselves two in the kitchen ... oh, Mother, we couldna help it.’
Lizzie wrestled with conflicting emotions: guilt at having left the house empty that day; outrage that they had done such a thing in her kitchen; anger at the boy for taking advantage of an innocent girl; sorrow over his death; concern for her ewe lamb. Motherly compassion won the day. ‘This is a bonnie kettle o’ fish, I must say, and we’ll need to keep it from your father.’
Indeed, Lizzie was terrified of what might happen if Geordie learned of this tragic turn of events. He would do anything rather than be shamed by his daughter in front of the whole community, and he had a temper that could whip up into white-hot fury, as she had seen once or twice during their married life, although he had never vented his spleen directly at her. ‘We’ll have to work out something to tell him so you can get away,’ she went on, ‘so we’d best have a cup o’ tea.’
A hint of a smile crossed Elspeth’s agonized face. Tea, her mother’s cure for everything, would not extinguish the new life growing inside her, and, in any case, she didn’t want it extinguished. It was John’s child, as much as hers.
They sipped the strong brew in silence until Lizzie laid her cup down with a satisfied thump. ‘I’ll say Janet’s got a good job for you in Aberdeen, and you’ll have to go before he notices anything. I’ll write and ask if she’ll take you in, and she’ll not be hard on you when she kens the poor laddie’s been killed.’
Elspeth doubted that. Her mother’s sister was sharp-tongued and narrow-minded, and was strong in condemnation of any girl who had an illegitimate child. What did she know about love?
‘It’s the only thing I can think on,’ Lizzie added.
Elspeth nodded sadly. Her aunt would sneer and make life difficult, especially after the bairn was born, for she had no children of her own and had no time for other people’s. But where else could she go?
Lizzie stood up. ‘You’d best go back to your bed, for you’ll not feel like working the day.’ She made up her mind to wait until suppertime before she said anything to Geordie; that would give her time to plan how to tell him.
While her mother went about her daily chores, anxiously trying to think of ways to shield her daughter, Elspeth lay weeping upstairs. John was dead! The child she was carrying would be born with no name, and such a stigma would go with him – or her – to the grave. She did not mind so much about herself, for it was her own actions that had brought her to this, but a poor innocent babe ...? There couldn’t be a God, or if there was, He wasn’t a good God as she had always been taught to believe. She had often heard the minister saying, in that boring way he had, ‘God is Love,’ so how could such a God punish John and her in this dreadful manner when all they had done was to love each other?
Puzzling this out, she remembered the lies she had told, the clandestine meeting at Blairton, the hours of loving madly ... though the minister, and her father, would call it fornication. But both telling lies and fornicating were sins, and she would have to suffer for them.
When Lizzie went upstairs, half an hour before Geordie was due home for his dinner, she found Elspeth asleep, exhausted from crying, by the look of her, poor lassie. Well, there was no need to tell her father that she was here, not yet. Suppertime would come soon enough. She had made his favourite tattie soup for his dinner, and arrowroot for his pudding, so that should keep him in a good mood for the afternoon, and if she ran to the village after he’d gone back to the farm, she could get a bowl of potted head for his supper, and give him curds for a pudding. Surely that would sweeten him for what she had to tell him.
As he usually did, he came in just after twelve, and ranted on about something the farmer had said to annoy him, but Lizzie was too preoccupied to take it in. Ferguson of Denseat was always roaring at somebody, but he was a good enough master, for all that. The tattie soup did make her husband simmer down, and by the time he had finished his pudding, he was calmer. His half hour over, he went out without a word, which was not unusual, for he was not a man to waste his breath needlessly.
Lizzie poured another cup of tea for herself. She had not realized how keyed up she was, but she sagged now in relief that he had noticed nothing. Having washed up the dishes, she went upstairs to see if Elspeth wanted anything to eat, but she was still sleeping. It was the best thing for her,
the mother thought, and sat down to write to Janet. She would post it when she went to the butcher in the village.
Elspeth was awake by the time she got back, but Lizzie made her stay in bed. ‘It’s best I tell your father when there’s just the two of us there.’ Never having deceived her husband before, she was afraid that she would not be able to carry it off if her daughter was looking on.
As soon as Geordie came home in the evening, he looked surprised that his wife was alone. ‘Eppie’s surely late in coming home the night?’
Having had all day to work it out, Lizzie was ready with her story. ‘She got two letters this morning, and she was awful upset, so I made her bide at home and go to her bed.’
‘What kind o’ news upset the lassie like that?’
‘Mrs Forrest wrote to tell her young John’s been killed.’
‘Oh.’ Geordie was obviously shaken. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but Eppie didna ken him well enough to be that upset, surely?’
She couldn’t have known him much better, Lizzie mused, wryly, but said, ‘She liked him an awful lot.’
‘Ach! She’s young and there’ll be other lads.’ Geordie callously glossed over Elspeth’s heartbreak. ‘It’s Blairton I’m sorry for. He’d his heart set on young John taking over from him some day. It makes you wonder if there’s a God at all, letting things like that happen.’
This shocked his wife more than anything he could have said, for Geordie had always been a religious man, too religious at times, for he could not see past the teachings of the scriptures. He looked perplexed suddenly. ‘But I thought you said there were two letters for her?’
‘The other one was from Janet. She’d heard o’ a sewing job in a big house in Aberdeen, and asked about it for Eppie, and she’s to start on Monday week, wi’ a lot more pay than she gets from Grace Fraser. It’s a blessing, really, coming at this time, for a change o’ job’ll take her mind off the laddie’s death.’ Amazed by her ability to distort the truth like this, Lizzie was thankful that Geordie didn’t question what she had told him. She would likely have broken down under pressure.
Time Shall Reap Page 7
