When she went out to help Jeems, Sandy was balanced on top of the peat stack throwing lumps of peat at his brother, who was howling loudly. ‘Stop that!’ she shouted.
Sandy let his hand drop. ‘Ach, I was only playin’, Mam.’
‘That’s nae playin’! Did he hurt you, my lambie?’
‘He got me on the lug.’ Jamie clutching his injured ear, squeezed out a tear.
‘Come, my dearie, an’ I’ll put a tickie butter on it.’
‘Why is it aye me you pick on?’ Sandy complained, as he slid down. ‘Why dae you never rage Jamie?’
Her voice hardened. ‘Nane o’ your lip. If you was as good as Jamie, I wouldna need to rage you, an’ if you havena cleaned up this yard afore I come back, you’ll feel the weight o’ my hand on your lug.’
Tenderly administering to her favourite son in the dairy, Mysie wished, not for the first time, that Jamie had been her only one.
Chapter Four
1913
‘There’s to be a meal an’ ale up at Fingask on Saturday,’ Jess observed. ‘Are you comin’?’
‘Jeems’ll nae go.’ Mysie had never pressed the matter when her husband refused, but now she felt resentful that he hadn’t considered her before. It was over eight years since she had come to Rowanbrae but she was only twenty-four, and she wanted some amusement before she was too old to enjoy it. ‘You ken, Jess, I dinna see why I shouldna go, an’ Jeems can bide at hame if he likes.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Jess beamed. ‘He’s a cantankerous de’il an’ he forgets you’re nae as auld as him. Here’s me an’ Jake, we still ha’e a grand time at a meal an’ ale, an’ we’re baith gettin’ on for forty. But Jeems has never went, nae even when he was a lot younger.’
‘He says it’s just a excuse for the men to get drunk an’ tak’ up wi’ somebody else’s wife.’
‘Weel, what’s wrang wi’ that?’ Jess threw back her head and laughed. ‘I’ve had a good puckle offers in my time, when Jake was that drunk he wouldna ha’e ken’t what I was daein’.’
‘Did you ever let …?’
‘I was sair tempted whiles, but something aye held me back. I didna object to gettin’ a cuddle an’ a kiss, though.’
‘Was it onybody I’d ken that cuddled an’ kissed you?’
‘Weel, I once let the miller …’
‘Andra White? But he’s bald an’ wizened.’
‘He wasna so bald and wizened at that time, an’, losh Mysie, I thought he’d ha’e the breeks aff me. I’d to kick his shins afore I could get awa’ fae him.’
Picturing it, Mysie giggled. ‘What did he say to that?’
‘He roared oot, “You coorse bitch!” ‘
Jess imitated Andra’s rather high-pitched voice, then winked. ‘It wasna his shins that was hurtin’ him, though, for my knee got him further up than that, so maybe that’s the road he speaks so squeaky.’
‘Och, Jess. What a wumman you are.’
‘Another time, I let Rab Duff gi’e me a cuddle, but you’ve to watch yoursel’ wi’ Rab as weel.’
‘I ken that.’ Mysie could still remember the way Rab had leered at her in her nightgown. ‘Was there ony mair?’
‘The souter, once, an’ I’m sure his wife would pee hersel’ if she ken’t what he tried to dae. Alice Thomson aye mak’s oot she’s a bit o’ a lady, but if she lets her man carry on like yon in their bed, she’s nae lady.’
‘What did he dae?’ Mysie leaned forward eagerly.
Throwing up her hands, Jess cried, ‘What did he nae dae? God, his hands were in places I didna ken I had.’
‘It’s true what Jeems says, then?’
‘There’s never muckle harm daen, though. The men’s just oot for fun, an’ it’s only them that’s fu’ that tries to go ower far. I’ve never let ony o’ them get past the elastic in my bloomer legs though they prigged till they were blue in the face. I like to be tickled up a wee bit, but I dinna want to be served on a dung heap at the back o’ a byre.’
‘Do you think onybody’ll want to tickle me up?’
‘Nae doot, but if they try, keep your hand on your ha’penny, it’s ower easy to get carried awa’.’ Jess was rather regretting telling her friend so much, for Mysie was inexperienced in the ways of men and could easily find herself in trouble, but it was done now. ‘You say you’re comin’, but will Jeems let you?’
‘I’ll tell him he’ll need to look after the bairns, an’ he’ll ha’e to like it or lump it.’
‘You could easy tak’ the bairns wi’ you, there’s aye a puckle runnin’ aboot through folks’s feet.’
‘I dinna want to tak’ the bairns wi’ me,’ Mysie said, her face clouding, ‘but I will if Jeems’ll nae look after them.’
‘I wish I could see his face when you tell him,’ Jess grinned. ‘But stand back, for if he doesna hit the roof, he’ll sure as hell hit you.’
That night, as soon as Jamie and Sandy were in bed, Mysie blurted out, ‘I’m goin’ to Fingask’s meal an’ ale wi’ Jess.’
Her husband’s eyes almost disappeared under his brows. ‘I’ve tell’t ye afore, you’re nae goin’ to nae meal an’ ales.’
Her inside churning, Mysie said, ‘It’s nae use arguin’, I’m goin’, an’ that’s a’ aboot it. You can bide wi’ the loons.’
‘Ha’e you gone clean daft, wumman? What’ll folk think?’
‘They’ll be pleased you’re lettin’ your wife aff the chain for once, an’ it’s nae use hittin’ me, for a’body’ll see the bruises, an’ what’s mair, I’m nae stoppin’ you comin’ wi’ me.’
He let his raised fists drop. ‘What if I tied you to the bed and didna let you oot?’
‘I wouldna put it past you, but I’d tell Jean Petrie on Sunday an’ she’d let a’body ken.’
‘Aye, she’d dae that, a’ right.’ Jeems fell silent, weighing up which would be the lesser of the two evils, then said, ‘I’ll ha’e to let you go, I suppose?’
‘Aye.’ Triumph shot through her at how easy it had been.
Mysie washed and ironed her Sunday blouse and skirt the next day, and checked that there were no holes in her stockings, for even if nobody would see them if there were any, she’d know they were there. She would have liked to have something new to wear, but there was no money for that, and Jess had told her that only the farmer’s wife ever wore any finery.
Jeems watched but said nothing as Mysie prepared to go out on Saturday night, but when she was ready – her dark hair, shining and luxuriant, swept up in a loose knot on top of her head instead of dragged back into its usual plain bun at her neck, her blue eyes sparkling, her cheeks pink with excitement – he couldn’t help feeling proud of her beauty. Not being the kind of man who could easily express his feelings, he merely stroked his big nose and gave a grunt. ‘That’s you ready, is it? I suppose you’ll be for aff?’
‘Aye,’ she replied, not in the least cast down because he had passed no favourable comment on her appearance. Excitement coursed through her as she walked along the road between the Findlaters. ‘Robertson o’ Waterton never has a meal an’ ale o’ his ain,’ Jess remarked, ‘so maist o’ his men’ll be at Fingask the nicht, as weel.’
‘The mair the merrier, eh, Mysie?’ Jake nudged her.
When they arrived, there seemed to be hundreds of people in the huge barn, dancing in wild abandon – even Jean Petrie had her skirts kilted up and was hooching and kicking her legs in the air. Her husband, Eck the grieve, was rattling up his old accordion, unaware of her antics, or perhaps fully aware of them but glad that she wasn’t miscalling their neighbours, as she was in the habit of doing at other times.
Half an hour later, disappointed that no one had asked her for the eightsome reel, Mysie spotted Andra White whirling Jess round, both screaming with laughter. Jake was standing at the improvised bar, drinking with the other men who were not up dancing, and looking as if he’d had more than enough already. His cheeks were scarlet, his hair, greying now and thinner, was sticking up u
ntidily, but he was enjoying himself and his feet were tapping in time to the music. Standing next to him was Drew White, the miller’s son, who was about the same age as Mysie herself, but his sister, Nessie, a year or so older, was skipping around, grinning and flaunting herself at any man who would look at her. Jeems had started something with his evening walks – or had Nessie always been like that?
Some small children were running through the dancers now, adding to the noise by yelling, and Kirsty Mutch, one of the farmer’s daughters, was having a heated argument with Johnnie Thomson, Alice’s youngest, both only six, but with fully-fledged tempers. Before they came to blows, Joe, Johnnie’s father, dragged him away by the scruff of his neck, and Kirsty turned aggressively on the girl standing nearest her. She had picked on the wrong person, however, for Meggie Duff, six years her senior, gave her a shove that almost knocked her over.
Effie and Denny Petrie, thirteen and fifteen respectively, and Robbie Duff, fourteen, were huddled together in a corner, all of them looking as if they hadn’t come to this social gathering of their own free wills. Thirteen-year-old Jinty Mutch, Kirsty’s sister, was sitting forlornly on her own, her eyes riveted on something at the other side of the room, and when Mysie turned her head to find out what, she saw Gavin Leslie on a bale of hay with Freda Mutch, who was wearing a tight silky dress that had slid up so far as to be indecent – her very knees were showing. So Jean Petrie’s story was true, Mysie thought, sorry for Jinty, who was likely embarrassed for her mother, for it was a terrible way for a farmer’s wife to be carrying on.
‘I see Mistress Mutch is busy.’ Unnoticed, Jean Petrie had seated herself next to Mysie. ‘I tell’t you she was takin’ up wi’ Gavin, but fancy her bein’ so brazen in front o’ her man. Nae that he looks worried aboot it.’
Following the other woman’s gaze, Mysie could see that Frank Mutch’s eyes were also fixed on his wife and the youth, but he didn’t seem to be jealous. Transferring her attention to the side again, Mysie saw that Gavin was pulling Freda to her feet, and although she put up a show of arguing for a few moments, she went outside with him willingly enough.
‘Aye,’ came Jean’s low voice. ‘I thought that would happen. He’s a randy little bugger that ane, an’ Freda’s nae better.’
Mysie rose with the intention of moving away, but her way was blocked by a young man who had just appeared in front of her. ‘Are you nae dancin’, Mrs Duncan?’
‘Naebody’s asked me,’ she replied, without thinking.
‘I’m askin’.’ He held out his hand to her and led her down the floor. ‘I dinna ken what Eck Petrie’s wife was sayin’ to you, but you looked as if you needed some help.’
‘Aye, I’m nae ane for listenin’ to her nasty gossip.’
‘I was watchin’ you for a while, wonderin’ who you was, an’ it was Jake Findlater tell’t me you was Jeems Duncan’s wife. I’m Doddie Wilson, cattleman at Waterton for five year, but I’ve never seen you at a meal an’ ale afore.’
‘Jeems doesna like dancin’, an’ he would never come.’
‘Is he here the nicht?’
‘No, he bade at hame wi’ the twa bairns.’
‘He’s nae feared to let you oot on your ain? You’re such a bonnie quine, a’ the men’ll be after you.’
Blushing, she said, ‘There’s nae fears o’ that.’
‘I would, if I thought you … wouldna object.’
There was something in his dark eyes that made Mysie’s heart skip a beat. He was everything she had ever dreamt about – tall and dark with twinkling eyes, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips – and surely nobody could condemn her if she let herself enjoy his company?
Eck Petrie had been fortifying himself with a dram, but when the music started up again, Mysie allowed Doddie to take her into position for a strip-the-willow. Some of the men tried to birl her off her feet, and she found herself skirling like the other women, but it was great fun, and when she glanced round, she saw that Jess was enjoying herself every bit as much, not surprising when her partner this time was Frank Mutch.
At the end, Eck unstrapped his accordion and went to the bar for a large glass of ale to replace the sweat he had lost while his fingers had flown over the keys, and most of the other men did the same, ostensibly to get their breath back, but Doddie sat down beside Mysie. ‘Your cheeks are flushed,’ he told her, ‘but it mak’s you even bonnier. Oh, I wish you werena Jeems Duncan’s wife. I could easy fa’ in love wi’ you.’
‘You needna bother,’ she laughed, but she, too, wished that she wasn’t Jeems Duncan’s wife.
The next dance was a Scottish waltz, and she could scarcely bear the thrill of being so close to Doddie; he was so gentle, so romantic, she wanted to stay in his arms for ever. When the waltz finished, he led her outside without saying a word, not that she would have said no if he’d asked first, but every dark corner they found seemed to be occupied, little squeals of girlish delight warning them not to go too near. By accident, they almost stumbled over the farmer’s wife and Gavin Leslie, moaning in the last throes of ecstasy. It was like a death knell to Mysie, who hastily extracted her hand from Doddie’s and said, firmly, ‘We’d best go back inside, or somebody might see us, like we saw Freda Mutch.’
‘Do you nae want to …?’
‘Aye, an’ that’s the trouble. I shouldna be feelin’ like this when I’m wed on Jeems.’
‘He’ll never ken.’
‘Somebody might tell him.’
‘There’s a lot o’ men’ll never ken what their wives are up to the nicht,’ Doddie murmured, looking at her with unconcealed longing. ‘Oh, Mysie, please?’
Torn between attraction to him and fear of her husband, she whispered, ‘No, I canna.’
‘I’ll nae force you.’ But he sounded disappointed. Inside, Mysie wondered if Jess had noticed her absence, but there was no sign of her, nor of the farmer. They were more than likely outside doing what she’d stopped Doddie from doing, and she wished that she’d let him, but it was too late now. He sat beside her again, telling her about himself, that his mother had died a few years ago and that his father lived near Fyvie. And she told him about her father’s death and her mother being cook at Tinterty. This made her remember that she hadn’t had a letter from her mother for some time, and made her resolve to write to her the next day. But, occasionally, an electric silence fell, during which their eyes met and locked until the confused Mysie had to look away, alarmed by the depth of her feelings.
When the last dance was announced, Doddie looked at her in dismay. ‘Will you come ootside wi’ me again, Mysie?’ he coaxed. ‘I didna even get a chance to kiss you afore.’
She went with him eagerly, not caring who saw them, and this time, most of the other couples having gone inside, they found a secluded spot behind the dairy. By the time the Findlaters found them, Mysie was on the point of succumbing to Doddie’s urgent pleading, and was almost angry at their interruption. Jake was swaying on his feet, but Jess met Mysie’s guilty eyes without a blush. ‘It’s time we went hame, lass.’
Scrambling up, Mysie said, unsteadily, ‘Thank you for … dancin’ wi’ me, Doddie, an’ goodnicht to you.’
‘Goodnicht, Mysie,’ he answered softly. ‘I’d best nae come alang the road wi’ you,’ he added to Jess.
‘No, Jeems Duncan might see you an’ start wonderin’.’
Jake’s legs having developed a will of their own, the two women had to help him to walk, but after a few giggles at his expense, Jess said, ‘Do you want to tell me onything, Mysie?’
‘I’ve naething to tell, for Jake an’ you spoiled it.’
‘Maybe it’s just as weel. Another man’s kisses is aye mair excitin’ than your ain man’s, an’ I’d a hard job nae to gi’e in mysel’ but I’ll tell you this, I wouldna really change my Jake for a dozen Frank Mutches.’
Mysie heaved a lengthy sigh. ‘I’d change Jeems for Doddie the morn, if I got the chance. He treated me like a lady, an’ Jeems whiles mak’s me fee
l like I was dirt under his feet.’
‘You’d best put Doddie oot o’ your head, lass,’ Jess said, not unsympathetically. ‘You’re Jeems’s wife, an’ that’s what you’ll aye be.’ Her tone became brisk. ‘Noo, come on, we’ll ha’e to get this man o’ mine hame afore he fa’s doon, for we’ll nae be able to lift him, the big, daft gowk.’
When they reached Rowanbrae, Jeems was standing at the door, but when he saw Jake’s condition, he came towards them. ‘I’ll gi’e you a hand to get him hame, Jess, an’ Mysie, get inside in case the loons waken up.’
She pretended to be asleep when he returned, and spent the night remembering Doddie’s tender kisses and gentle caresses, so different from her husband’s rough maulings. Her body was aching for the young man, the man of her dreams, but she knew that it could never be. She was bound by law to Jeems, but at least he would never know what she and Doddie had been doing, for nobody except Jess – Jake had been too drunk – could have seen them.
Unfortunately for Mysie, someone else had seen, and her interlude with Doddie was common knowledge the following day, circulating in the district like wildfire. Jean Petrie, delighted to have some juicy scandal to pass on about Jeems Duncan’s quiet young wife, made the most of it outside the door of the church. ‘I seen her mysel’ goin’ oot wi’ Doddie, though they didna bide lang, but they must ha’e liked it that muckle they went oot again later on an’ never come back in.’
‘Mysie Duncan an’ Doddie Wilson?’ marvelled Alice Thomson. ‘I’d never ha’e believed that, for she’s just a little moose, an’ he’s never looked at ony lassie afore.’
Mrs Petrie was puffed up with pride at surprising everyone. ‘I was only jaloosin’ what they were daein’, but Meggie Duff tell’t Belle she seen them lyin’ thegither at the back o’ the dairy, an’ it was Belle tell’t me.’ Pausing for effect, she lowered her voice. ‘We’ll ha’e to wait a while afore we ken if onything comes o’ it, but I think somebody should tell Jeems.’
The Road to Rowanbrae Page 5
