Jamie was first to move, but, as he went to give his father the jacket, he tripped over a hidden tree root. His arms beat the air for a split second, then, with a piercing shriek, and before any of the horrified watchers could do anything to stop him, he plunged straight down into the murky water at the foot of the disused quarry.
Chapter Six
Some thirty minutes earlier, when he’d come out at the door of the mill to smoke his pipe, Andra White had noticed three figures running across the moss – a man first, then, some way behind, a woman and a boy – but it had taken him some time to realise who they were and where they were heading, and longer still before the significance of their destination dawned on him. ‘It was Jeems Duncan an’ Mysie an’ Jamie,’ he told his wife, ‘runnin’ to the quarry like the devil was chasin’ them. Surely Sandy wouldna ha’e fell doon the hole?’
‘You’d best go an’ see,’ Pattie advised, ‘an tak’ a rope wi’ you, in case the bairn’s got stuck.’ Her face grew grave. ‘If he’s went right doon, there’s naething naebody can dae.’
When her husband came round from the outhouses carrying a coil of strong rope, she said, ‘I’ll come wi’ you, Andra, for Mysie’ll need a wumman body if …’ She didn’t finish.
Pattie, very stout and more breathless by the minute, lagged farther and farther behind Andra as he hurried across the bog, but when he caught sight of the group of three standing near the edge like statues, he turned his head and shouted to her, ‘The laddie must be lost.’ Drawing nearer, his growing concern turned to astonishment when he saw that it was Sandy who was with his parents, not Jamie, as he’d expected. Both Jeems and Mysie appeared to be paralysed with shock, but Sandy looked up desolately. ‘I was tryin’ to get a martin’s egg an’ I stretched oot an’ slid ower, an’ Jamie come ower to pull me up, an he’s fell doon.’
Andra did not understand this garbled account, but he and Pattie took them to the mill, and it was there that he pieced the true story together. ‘Oh, God, that’s the worst thing I ever heard,’ he muttered, when he took it in. ‘To think you’d baith loons safe, an’ …’ He halted, appalled by the look on the other man’s face as much as by the tragedy. ‘Dinna blame yoursel’, Jeems. You did what you thought was right, an’ you couldna help what happened.’
Pattie, her arms round the still-silent Mysie, looked up at her husband and shook her head sadly. Andra noticed that the young woman’s body was caved in, her eyes were blank in big, dark sockets, her face and lips as white as driven snow. She was scarcely breathing, and clearly had no idea where she was.
Pattie took matters firmly in hand. ‘I’ll best tak’ Mysie up the stair to lie doon.’ Helping the other woman to her feet, she led her out.
Remembering that the boy was still standing just inside the door, Andra said, kindly, ‘Sit doon, my loon.’
Sandy had not said a word since they left the quarry. He walked across the room unsteadily and perched himself on the edge of one of the chairs. There he sat, his fingers twining through each other, his eyes regarding the top of his father’s head as Jeems sat bent almost double.
The miller, recognising the shame and appeal in the stare, wished he could take Sandy in his arms to reassure him, but it was Jeems’s place to do that, or, even more so, Mysie’s. The bairn was needing love at this time, but his mother and father were too wrapped up in their own guilt and sorrow to speak to him. It was a bad business altogether, Andra mused.
When Pattie came thumping down the stairs, she said, ‘I’ll mak’ a cup o’ strong, sweet tea for her.’
‘Would you like a dram, Jeems?’ Andra offered, hopefully.
The bowed head lifted slowly. ‘Thank you, no, I’ll never touch strong drink again. Maybe this is God’s punishment to me for nae bein’ the man I should ha’e been, an’ I swear, in front o’ witnesses, that I’ll …’ Jeems’s voice broke, and his head dropped again.
‘You’ll tak’ some tea, then,’ Pattie ordered. ‘An’ you, as weel, my lambie.’
The six-year-old jumped down from his seat and ran to her, bursting into tears when she sat down and took him on her lap. The sound triggered Jeems off, and Sandy glanced round for a moment in amazement at the loud, harsh sobs breaking from his father’s throat, then he snuggled back against the miller’s wife’s ample bosom for consolation. Just then, Nessie, in her furtive way, eased the kitchen door open, her eyes lighting up when she saw Jeems, but she withdrew, puzzled, when her mother lifted a hand and shooed her away.
They were still sitting, hushed now, when Mysie came down almost an hour later, ashen faced, but in complete control of herself. ‘You should ha’e bidden up there,’ Pattie scolded, shifting Sandy off her lap and moving across to the fireside to make the tea she had been prevented from brewing before.
Mysie’s eyes, no longer blank, were deeply troubled. ‘I want to go hame,’ she whimpered.
Jeems stood up, still aching from the grief that had racked his whole body. ‘You’re right, we’d best get hame.’
‘Aye, awa’ you go.’ Andra shuffled his feet. ‘I’ll report … what’s happened, so dinna worry aboot that.’
Running forward, Sandy slipped his hand into his mother’s. He didn’t see the bitter look she gave him as they went out. It was Sandy’s fault, she thought, as they trailed along the road, and she wished now that she’d had the courage to throw herself after her beloved son, but she had been too shocked to think clearly. How could she go on living when her Jamie was lying under all that water in a deep hole? If Jeems had let her get a rope, if he hadn’t made Jamie go down, if they’d left Sandy … oh, she shouldn’t be thinking that. When they entered their own house, her deep shame at her thoughts made her say, gently, ‘Get to your bed like a good loon, Sandy.’
The pleading in his eyes told her that he was afraid to go through to the bed he had shared with his brother, which she could understand, for she didn’t want to share a bed with his father. Sandy was only a bairn, and hadn’t thought before he stretched down to the nest, but Jeems should have known better than do what he did. ‘I’ll sleep wi’ you the nicht, my loon,’ she whispered. Her husband’s grief-stricken face made her feel fleetingly sorry for him. He, too, had lost a son. It did not occur to her that Jamie’s death was not really Jeems’s fault, because the boy could still have tripped and fallen even if her husband had let her go for a rope.
It was a long night for Mysie and Jeems, separately trying to forget Jamie’s screams as he fell to his death, and Sandy was the only one to get any sleep, but he was so restless that his mother was tempted, several times, to rouse him from the nightmares that obviously troubled him.
Mysie rose well before her usual time, but Jeems was already dressed when she went through to the kitchen, his face white and haggard, his hand shaking as he lifted the teapot. She stepped forward to take it from him, but he laid it down and flung his arms round her. ‘Oh, Mysie, I needed you last nicht.’
She stiffened. ‘Sandy needed me, as weel.’ She felt like screaming that he should have made sure both boys were away from the edge after he brought them up.
‘I canna get it oot o’ my mind, Mysie. I canna thole it.’
‘You’ll ha’e to thole it, the same as me,’ she said, coldly.
‘Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ!’ He sobbed against her shoulder, shaking uncontrollably, but she made no effort to comfort him. When he calmed down, his tortured eyes looked at her piteously. ‘Oh, I wish it was me that had went ower.’
Wishing that, too, she turned guiltily to Sandy as he came through. ‘There’s nae porridge made yet,’ she said, sharply, but regretted snapping at him when she saw his pinched cheeks and huge, mournful eyes.
‘I’m nae needin’ ony porridge the day,’ Jeems grunted.
‘Either am I.’ Sandy stood in front of his parents, his face expressing a wisdom far beyond his years. ‘I ken it’ll nae bring Jamie back, but I’m sorry it was my blame.’
‘Maybe it was your blame in the first place, but it was my b
lame at the …’ His father’s voice broke, and turning on his heel, he walked out.
Feeling unable to cope with the boy on her own, Mysie said, ‘Go oot wi’ your father, Sandy.’ As he moved away, head down, he reminded her of a dog that had expected kindness and been whipped instead. She had not loved him as she should, and, because it was through him that she had lost Jamie, she would never be able to love him now, though he was the only son she had left. How could she watch him growing and not think that Jamie would have been that bit taller, that bit more sensible, that bit more loving?
The wag-at-the-wa’ ticked on relentlessly, but she remained sitting, unheedful of the chores she should be doing, unable to grieve properly for her dead son because there seemed to be a lead weight where her heart should have been. She didn’t even notice the daylight trying to stream through the curtain, and jumped nervously as the porch door burst open, but when she saw that it was Jess Findlater, welcome tears rushed to her eyes and she dashed across the room into the sturdy arms.
Jess rocked her to and fro, murmuring, ‘I ken, I ken,’ until Mysie pulled herself together. ‘I’m sorry for lettin’ go like that, but it’s the first time I’ve grat since …’
‘You’ve got to let it oot,’ Jess soothed, ‘or it would grow an’ grow inside you till you went aff your head. Me an’ Jake didna ken till Pattie sent Nessie to Downies on her bike to tell us this mornin’. I thought the daft thing was bletherin’, but you never ken wi’ Nessie, so we dropped a’thing an’ run. Jake’s speakin’ to Jeems, an’ … oh, God, I’m sorry, Mysie.’
‘If only it hadna been Jamie.’ Mysie dried her eyes with her apron, missing the odd look the other woman gave her.
‘For ony sake, Mysie, dinna wish it was Sandy that was awa’.’
‘I dinna, nae noo, but you ken Jamie was aye my favourite. I couldna help it, for Sandy plagues the very life oot o’ me.’
‘Dinna blame him though, an’ try to show him you’ve nae ill-will at him for Jamie’s death. The good Lord must ha’e meant for it to happen, one road or another.’
Completely taken aback at this, Mysie sat down. ‘But why did He tak’ Jamie? What had the bairn daen to be punished like that? He was a good loon, an’ he aye did what he was tell’t.’
‘He was maybe ower good.’
Mysie gasped. ‘I just minded. You’d think Jockie ken’t what was goin’ to happen, for he said it’s only the good die young.’
‘So it is, lass.’ Jess rose to make another pot of tea.
Watching her, Mysie realised that it was this woman who was her strength, who would see her through, not her husband. He had a right to grieve, of course, but he could have tried to help her instead of pleading with her to help him. Without warning, she was struck by another thought and drew her breath in sharply. ‘Was God punishin’ me for what I did wi’ Doddie?’
About to place a cup in a saucer, Jess halted with her hand in midair. ‘But you tell’t me you didna dae naething.’
‘If you hadna found us, I’d ha’e let him tak’ me an’ welcome. I never ken’t I could feel like yon aboot a man.’
Stumped for an answer, Jess set the cup down, then muttered, after a moment, ‘But you didna let him, so …’
‘But the Lord would ken what was in my mind, an’ He’ll ken I’ve been dreamin’ aboot Doddie an’ wishin’ I could see him again.’
Jess lifted the teapot. ‘I’m sure there’s dizzens o’ weemen ha’e dreams aboot a man that’s nae their ain.’
‘But they just dream,’ Mysie said, bitterly. ‘It was mair than dreams wi’ me. I’d ha’e left Jeems in a minute if Doddie had asked me. I even …’ Clapping her hand over her mouth, she stopped, ashamed at what she had admitted, and aghast at how close she’d come to saying that she wished Jeems was dead so that she would be free to go to Doddie.
Shrewd Jess, however, had guessed. ‘Calm doon, lass. You’re upset an’ I ken you dinna mean what you’re sayin’. Drink that tea, and I’ll get the rest o’ them in.’
When Jake came in with Jeems and Sandy, Mysie could see that he had had the same calming influence on them as Jess had on her, and was very grateful to them.
Over the next few days, both Duncans had even more cause to be grateful to their nearest neighbours. It was the Findlaters who helped them answer the questions asked by the police; who identified Jamie when his poor little body was dredged up by equipment loaned by Craigenlow Quarry; who made the funeral arrangements and saw them through the actual day.
When all the other people left, they sat down, their first chance to relax, and Jeems grasped Jake’s hand abruptly. ‘I dinna ken what I’d ha’e daen the day if you hadna been here, man. I’m sure I’d ha’e lost my reason.’ Turning to Jess, he said, ‘I’ve nae words to thank you for what you’ve daen for us.’
‘I ken I’ve an awfu’ tongue,’ she said, seriously, ‘but I can haud it when I like, an’ buckle doon to what’s got to be daen.’
‘You’ve aye been a good freen’ to me, Jess.’ Mysie’s voice was almost choked. ‘An’ I’ll mind what you said,’ she added, glancing at Sandy, who was sitting on the fenderstool in front of the fire, his white, drawn face turning pink with the heat.
Somewhat embarrassed, Jess said, ‘It was good o’ the laird’s wife to send you that letter o’ condolence when she’s never even met you.’
Mysie gulped. ‘A’body’s been good, even Jean Petrie come an’ tell’t me how sorry she was, an’ she really meant it.’
Jess stood up and looked at her husband. ‘Come on, Jake, this folk’s needin’ their beds, but mind, Mysie, ony time you need me, just let me ken.’ She laid a hand on the boy’s head on her way to the door. ‘Be a good loon to your Mam, Sandy.’
‘I’ll try,’ he whispered as she went out.
Several minutes elapsed before Mysie leaned over and patted his hand awkwardly. ‘Get awa’ to your bed, my loon. You must be tired, for you’ve had a lang day.’
‘Will you be sleepin’ wi’ me the nicht again?’ She steeled herself against the appeal in his eyes. ‘Nae the nicht. You’ll ha’e to get used to sleepin’ yoursel’ noo.’
As Sandy trailed through to the other room, Jeems, stretching his arms above his head, gave a loud yawn and regarded Mysie hopefully. ‘I’m fit for my bed mysel’. Are you comin’?’
‘Aye, in a minute.’ Like Sandy, she was loath to return to the old pattern, afraid that Jeems would demand the solace she couldn’t give him. A few minutes later, she was shivering with disgust at his undressed figure. The long woollen drawers did nothing to hide the outward curve of his bandy legs; the tight linder emphasised his pot belly; the soles of his feet, as he clambered into the high box bed, were leathery and calloused.
Oh, God, she thought, in anguish, if he were Doddie she would be in the bed beside him like a shot, but she was tied to this ugly brute of a man for the rest of her life – or his – and she would have to try to forget the magic of Doddie’s kisses, as she would have to try to forget the manner of Jamie’s death. She was absolutely positive that she would never forget either the boy himself – or the man she loved.
Chapter Seven
‘The new packman should be here the morn,’ Jess observed.
Mysie nodded. ‘I wonder what like he’ll be?’
‘He’s bound to be younger than Jockie,’ Jess grinned, ‘but mind you, Jockie was a fine auld man – never a bad word to say aboot onybody. There’s nae mony folk like that nooadays.’
‘No, an’ he could mak’ you feel as though you was his maist important customer.’
‘I used to be sorry I couldna buy mair fae him,’ Jess said, pensively, ‘but he ken’t I hadna the bawbees.’
‘Aye, he never tried to mak’ you buy ony mair than you asked. I aye took him in an’ gi’ed him a cup o’ tea, should I dae that wi’ the new man?’
‘You’re auld enough to mak’ up your ain mind aboot him when he comes.’ Knowing Mysie’s vulnerability with young men, Jess issued a warning. �
��I wouldna gi’e him ower muckle rope to start wi’, if I was you, though. It’s best to go canny.’
Remembering that it was on the day of Jockie’s last visit that the tragedy had occurred, Jess wished with all her being that she hadn’t brought up the subject, for Mysie hadn’t got over Jamie’s death yet. She’d carried on bravely from the day after the funeral, but her heart hadn’t been in what she was doing, poor soul. It was really a good thing that it would be a new packman, for it wouldn’t remind her so much.
Standing up, she said, ‘I’ll need to be awa’. See you the morn.’ She had never missed a day going to Rowanbrae for the past three months, no matter how busy she was, and knew that her friend depended on her visits.
After Jess left, Mysie rinsed out the cups, thanking God once again for their friendship, deeper than ever since that awful day. She was gradually coming to terms with her loss, though she would never get over it completely, and the mention of the new packman had kindled her interest. In fact, she realised in some surprise, she felt quite excited about it, and she would likely have a big disappointment when she saw him. Even if he was young, he might be fat and greasy and sweaty and she just hated sweaty men. Sweat from hard work was a different thing. Jeems often came home sweating, but after he washed, he wasn’t so bad, and Doddie Wilson had been sweating when he’d danced with her, but his sweat smelt different from Jeems’s – sweeter, more manly. But she hadn’t seen Doddie since the meal and ale four months ago, and there seemed little chance of ever seeing him again.
Sandy came home then, putting Doddie out of her mind, even making her forget her speculations about the new packman. He went straight to the pantry. ‘Can I ha’e a scone an’ butter, Mam? I’m that hungry I could eat a …’
‘You’ll get your supper in a wee while, just go an’ change your claes, that’ll tak’ your mind aff your belly.’
‘It’ll nae dae that.’ But he did as he was told, and was back in the kitchen with his old clothes on by the time Jeems came in. ‘We got muppelication the day,’ Sandy announced, when they were sitting round the table. ‘I canna mak’ heads or tails o’t, an’ Meldie was ragin’ me …’
The Road to Rowanbrae Page 7
