The Road to Rowanbrae

by Doris Davidson

  Mysie’s sigh made Jess feel quite tender towards her. ‘Ha’e you heard fae Doddie lately?’

  ‘I’d a letter last week, but I wish he could get hame. The only thing is, he’ll nae ha’e nae place to bide, an’ I’ll be tied up at the Big Hoose, so he’ll likely go to Fyvie to his father.’

  Jess frowned. ‘Write an’ tell him he can sleep here. We’ve still got that auld mattress Andra White gi’ed us.’

  ‘That’s good o’ you, Jess. I’ll tell him next time I write.’

  ‘Speakin’ aboot Andra, his Drew’s enlisted, as weel. Poor Pattie, she’s enough on her plate wi’ Nessie withoot that. D’you ken what that daft bitch did? She wandered awa’ one day an’ fell in wi’ a sodger fae the camp at Cairndoon, an’ you ken what she’s like for men, so she’s in the family way noo. The only thing she can tell them is it was a man wi’ a kilt. God, they’re a’ kilters at Cairndoon.’

  ‘Poor Nessie,’ Mysie murmured.

  Jess gave her a calculating look. ‘She’s just a penny to the shillin’, of coorse, but did you nae ken aboot her an’ Jeems?’

  Mysie didn’t want to think about Jeems, but she said, ‘Aye, I ken’t, an’ she was welcome to him.’

  ‘Aye, weel, but it surprises me she hasna been catched afore, for I’m sure she’s had near a’ the men roon’ here at her.’

  ‘Even Jake?’ Mysie couldn’t resist it.

  ‘Like enough. What man would say no if a wumman walked up to him wi’ her skirts lifted up? That’s what Nessie does, you ken, an’ her whiles wi’ nae bloomers on.’

  Mysie laughed. ‘Och, Jess, you’re bletherin’.’

  ‘It’s true, as sure as I’m sittin’ here, an’ she’s a bonnie enough quine, though she’s soft in the head.’

  Mysie left soon afterwards, remembering, as she cycled past the empty shell of Rowanbrae, how happy she and Doddie had been there, and when she came to the mill, she wondered if Nessie had tried to tempt Doddie when he’d slept there before he went away. It was too awful to contemplate and she was glad when she met Jean and Eck Petrie, on their way home from a walk.

  ‘Hey, Mysie!’ Jean shouted. ‘You’ve time to speak a minute?’

  ‘Just a wee minute.’ She stopped and dismounted.

  ‘How are you likin’ being’ a cook?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Ony word o’ Doddie comin’ hame?’

  ‘Nae yet.’

  ‘Jess’ll ha’e tell’t you aboot Nessie White? It’s a good job Jeems is awa’, or we’d ha’e been thinkin’ he was the father.’

  Mrs Petrie’s eyes were glinting with the satisfaction she got from casting slurs, and Mysie couldn’t help laughing. ‘I ken’t aboot her an’ Jeems, Jean, an’ I dinna suppose you refused her either, eh, Eck?’ It came out before she thought and there was a brief moment of shock all round.

  ‘No, Mysie,’ Eck said, quietly. ‘A man doesna refuse what’s cocked up in front o’ him, especially when his ain wife keeps him oot o’ her bed.’

  Mysie had forgotten that, and was so ashamed of what she’d said that she cycled off without another word, but heard Jean loudly berating her husband. ‘Did you need to tell her that, Eck Petrie? An’ admittin’ you took that daftie? I’ll never be able to look her in the …’ The rest was lost.

  Mysie reflected guiltily that she’d got her own back on the woman for all the nasty things she’d said in the past, but it didn’t make her feel good. When she got back, she put Meggie’s bicycle in the shed and went to make sure that the girl hadn’t let the stew burn. ‘Is Mr Phillip an’ the bairns hame yet?’ she asked, and was relieved to learn that they weren’t.

  When Sandy ran in ten minutes later, he chattered on about what Mr Phillip had said, what Mr Phillip had given them in the way of sweets, what Mr Phillip had let them have turns on at the carnival, and Mysie listened with only half an ear as she filled plates for both upstairs and downstairs. He only stopped speaking when he sat down to eat, and she seized the chance to ask, ‘Did you behave yoursel’?’

  ‘Mr Phillip said I behaved better than Bobby, Mam.’

  ‘As lang as you didna disgrace me. Noo, it’s up that stair to your bed the minute you’ve finished your supper.’

  ‘It’s a man’s hand he’s needin’,’ she confided to Meggie while they were tidying up. ‘He was good as gold wi’ Mr Phillip, an’ once Doddie’s oot o’ the Gordons he’ll keep him in aboot.’

  *

  When Meggie returned from visiting her parents the following week, she said, ‘Denny Petrie’s enlisted, an’ Ma says Jean’s goin’ aboot tellin’ folk that him an’ Drew White are the only real men in Burnlea. Oor Robbie’s wantin’ to go, but Da’ll nae let him, for he says he’s mair needed at hame.’

  Doddie had been first to enlist, Mysie thought, sadly, but after what she had said to Eck she wasn’t surprised that Jean Petrie had slighted him by not mentioning him, although it was really her that the besom was trying to slight.

  Bobby Phillip and Sandy did nothing really outrageous before the summer holidays were over – just irritating things, like tearing their clothes climbing trees, and throwing pails of water over each other when it was unbearably hot. The only time Mysie had been really angry was when Bobby found a tin of whitewash – Maitland had forgotten to put it out of harm’s way after he’d been using it – and painted Sandy from head to foot. Meggie had been nearly scared out of her wits when the white apparition had appeared at the back door, but Mysie took one look at the naked boy and gave him a walloping he wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  ‘It wasna my blame,’ he sobbed, as she scrubbed him until his skin was almost raw.

  ‘Naething’s never your blame,’ she scolded, but was thankful that he’d had the sense to take his clothes off first. He was almost back to normal again, although there were times when he was very quiet, perhaps brooding over the old days and wondering what had happened to his father. He never asked any questions about Jeems, though, nor made any mention of the fire, and it usually wasn’t long before he came out of his queer mood.

  When the schools resumed, the whole household heaved a sigh of relief, but the folk in the Burnlea area had other things to trouble them. Every week, Mysie learned of another family’s son leaving, and several of the single farm servants, from both Fingask and Waterton, felt the urge to go and fight for their country. As Jess said, ‘The place is emptyin’ quicker than the school at four o’clock.’ Maitland, twenty-five and also single, felt obliged to tell everyone that he had flat feet and the army wouldn’t want him anyway, so he needn’t bother offering his services. Chrissie, despondent at losing so many of her lads, found admirers galore at Cairndoon camp, and discovered, to her delight, that they were more fun than the locals.

  Doddie’s letters were like gold to Mysie, and just as scarce, but she wrote to him faithfully each week, and life went on in the usual way – hard work and little leisure.

  When Mrs Phillip came into the kitchen one afternoon at the beginning of December 1915, Mysie wondered if Sandy had done something he shouldn’t, but it was nothing to do with Sandy.

  ‘My brother will be home for Christmas,’ her employer smiled, ‘so I thought I should give a small dinner party, just family. My mother died some time ago, but I will invite my father and his sister Beatrice, as well as my brother, also Mr Phillip’s parents and his sister and her husband. That will make nine adults, and the children.’

  ‘How mony children, Ma’am?’ Mysie asked, trembling.

  ‘Just our two,’ Mrs Phillip smiled. ‘Don’t worry about it, Mrs Duncan. Just traditional Christmas fare, turkey and all the trimmings, and plum pudding, of course.’

  Mysie had no idea what the ‘usual trimmings’ were, but nodded wisely. There was a section headed ‘Special Occasions’ in the old recipe book although she’d never looked at it, but provided that it was as simple as the rest of the book, it should be easy enough to follow, and she had three weeks to study it.

  When next she went to
Downies, she told Jess all about the dinner. ‘The Christmas menu in the recipe book says cream of asparagus soup to start wi’, but I’m goin’ to gi’e them broth, for it’s the only thing to keep the cauld oot. Then it says roast turkey an’ cranberry sauce, though that’s a funny thing to be eatin’ wi’ turkey, an’ brussel sprouts an’ carrots an’ peas, an’ roast tatties an’ chestnut stuffin’.’

  ‘Chestnut stuffin’?’ Jess seemed surprised.

  ‘I wouldna fancy it mysel’ an’ I thought, if I made skirlie an’ said it was oatmeal stuffin’, it would be a change for them. I’ve made the puddin’ already, for it says it should be kept for twa month, but it would be mouldy by that time, an’ Mrs Phillip didna tell me early enough, ony road. I’ve nae idea what it’ll taste like, for I’d to put brandy in, an’ I’ve to pour mair brandy ower it when it’s served, an’ set a match to it. It sounds queer, but that’s what it says in the book. An’ I’ve still to mak’ the Christmas pies for ha’ein’ wi’ their coffee.’

  ‘You wouldna think there was a war on,’ Jess observed, having waited patiently to tell her piece of news. ‘Drew White’s been wounded, an’ Nessie’s bairn died, though that’s maybe a good thing. Pattie says she goes aboot the hoose lookin’ for it, an’ it wouldna surprise me if she lost the rest o’ her wits, noo. She’ll nae be so ready to let a man tak’ her again, though I doot if she kens that’s how the bairn got in her to start wi’.’

  ‘She’s a poor thing,’ Mysie agreed, ‘but what aboot Drew?’

  ‘Pattie says it was shrapnel in his leg, but he’s nae bad enough to be sent hame.’

  ‘I hope Doddie never gets wounded.’

  Little of the Christmas dinner was sent back to the kitchen, and further proof of its success came when Mrs Phillip went downstairs the next morning. ‘All my guests thought that the meal was just perfect, Mrs Duncan, and Gregor, my brother, even said that the oatmeal stuffing was a heaven-sent inspiration. He was always something of a gourmet, so that was indeed a great compliment, and I think you could consider yourself a fully-fledged cook now.’

  Mysie felt very proud, but as soon as her employer went out, she turned to her kitchenmaid, who had prepared most of the vegetables and even helped with the dishing-up. ‘I’d never ha’e managed withoot you, Meggie.’

  The girl glowed with pleasure. ‘I’d like to learn to be a cook, though. Would you show me, sometimes?’

  ‘Aye, once Hogmanay’s past.’

  Hogmanay passed uneventfully. Maitland had gone to see his parents, and old McGregor saw the New Year in quietly with the cook and the kitchenmaid. There were none of the wild parties Mysie had imagined the gentry holding, and if the laird and his wife did take a few drinks, they had kept it very quiet.

  On the fourth of January, a letter from Doddie made Mysie sit down and weep, and Meggie, coming in from the scullery, ran across to her full of concern. ‘What’s wrang?’

  ‘Doddie’s comin’ hame on leave,’ Mysie sobbed.

  ‘You should be happy, then.’

  ‘I am happy, it’s just that I havena seen him for near a year an’ … oh, I’m just bein’ daft.’

  ‘Aye are you.’

  At Downies, Mysie’s good news was rather blunted when Jess told her that Davey Robertson, the eldest son of the farmer at Waterton, had been killed.

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ Mysie exclaimed. ‘He surely wasna auld enough to be in the war?’

  Jess shook her head. ‘He cheated his age when he enlisted, an’ I’m near sure he’s nae even seventeen yet.’

  ‘I dinna ken his mother and father, but I’m sorry for them.’

  ‘They never mixed muckle, thought themselves a bit above the rest o’ us, but death comes to us a’, rich or poor.’

  ‘But nae so often when folk’s as young as Davey Robertson.’ Mysie’s heart cramped suddenly. ‘I hope naething happens to Doddie afore he comes hame.’

  ‘He’ll be here, dinna fret, lass.’

  Perking up a little, Mysie said, ‘He’ll likely come to Downies first, so tell him to come to me as quick as he can, for I’m desperate to see him.’

  Going back to Burnlea House, she didn’t even glance at the blackened walls of Rowanbrae as she cycled past, she was too intent in praying that Doddie was safe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  1916

  Early on Tuesday afternoon, a loud rap at the servants’ door sent Mysie running to answer it, almost sending Meggie flying in her haste. Flinging the door open, she felt herself go weak at the knees and stood for a second drinking in the familiar features of the man she loved. He looked older – there were lines on his face that hadn’t been there before – and paler, more serious … but he was still … ‘Oh, Doddie!’

  He had been waiting uncertainly, but now the khaki arms went round her, holding her as if they would never let her go, and while they stood locked together, he murmured her name against her cheek. ‘Mysie, my ain dear Mysie! I can hardly believe I’m wi’ you again. It’s been such a lang time.’

  Meggie was weeping unashamedly at the emotional reunion, but after a moment – a very long moment – she said, ‘Look, Mysie, I’ll bide in the scullery an’ you can tak’ your lad into the kitchen an’ shut the door.’

  Few sensible words were spoken over the next quarter of an hour, embraces and kisses being sufficient to show how much each had missed the other, but at last they broke away. ‘Oh, Mysie, I love you mair than ever,’ Doddie breathed, sitting down at the side of the large range. ‘I’ve thought about you every day, an’ pictured your bonnie broon hair an’ blue een.’

  ‘I must look a mess,’ she protested. ‘I’ve still on my auld apron an’ cap.’

  ‘You could never look a mess,’ he told her, devouring her with his eyes. ‘I’d forgot how bonnie you really were.’

  Love for him overcoming her, she sat on his knee to kiss him again, a kiss which kindled long-denied desire in both of them, and Doddie’s caresses were growing quite passionate when Mrs Phillip came in. Mysie jumped up, her face scarlet. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Ma’am, but Doddie’s new hame on leave …’

  Her employer smiled indulgently. ‘You should have told me he was coming, and I’d have arranged some free time for you, but if you prepare dinner before you go, Meggie can dish up, so you may have the rest of the day off – provided that you do not stay out too late.’

  Romantic Meggie was more than willing to see to the dinner and to supervise Sandy when he came home from school, but it was almost an hour before Mysie was satisfied that she had done all she could to leave the kitchenmaid as little work as possible, and she felt able to leave the house with Doddie.

  When she first saw him, she had been shocked at the change in him and couldn’t get over how thin and drawn his face was, how dull and deep-set his eyes. It was difficult to remember how handsome he had been when he left, rosy cheeks shining with good health, eyes clear and bright, and she was anxious for him to tell her what had wrought the change.

  Strolling so slowly between kisses that a snail could have overtaken them, it took them over thirty minutes to walk down the avenue. The grass was too wet to sit on – sleety rain had been falling steadily since early morning – but everything they passed seemed beautiful to them, even the rusty, creaking gate on to the road when they finally came to it.

  ‘We’ll just ha’e to go to Downies, there’s nae place else we’ll get a seat.’ Mysie was bitterly disappointed that love-making was out of the question, but at least they were together, and there would be other days.

  As they walked, she told him about Nessie White’s baby, about the men who had enlisted after him, about Drew White’s wounded leg, about the Christmas dinner, but not about Davey Robertson. Death was a subject that shouldn’t be brought up to a serving soldier who would have to return to the front line. At last, with him telling her nothing about the war, she said, ‘You must be tired listenin’ to me goin’ on an’ on.’

  ‘I could listen to you for ever.’ He squeezed
her arm. ‘I’m storin’ it up in my mind, so when I go back I can picture the kind o’ things you’ll be daein’, an’ a’ the folk I used to ken. Weel, that’s if I get ony peace to think. There’s whiles we dinna even get a chance to sleep.’

  ‘Is it awfu’ bad ower there, Doddie? Is that why you havena tell’t me onything aboot it?’

  ‘Aye, it’s bad, lass.’

  ‘Tell me aboot it. I want to picture you when you’re awa’, like you’ll be picturin’ me. I want to ken the places you’ve been an’ what happened to you.’

  ‘Mysie, I want to forget it.’

  ‘Please, Doddie?’

  ‘It’s naething but trenches an’ shells an’ …’ He turned towards her, sighing. ‘A’ right, I’ll tell you. It’ll maybe dae me good, for it eats awa’ inside me sometimes, an’ I swear I’ll never forget some o’ the things I’ve saw. When I went ower first, we was in a place called Neuve Chapelle. That wasna so bad, for we had a twelve-day tour o’ duty – two days in the trenches, two oot, two in, two oot, an’ so on, then six days rest in reserve. Even though, a lot o’ the men were killed or wounded. When we were pulled oot o’ there, we were marched to St Julien, just a little place nae much bigger than Burnlea, an’ a’ we saw was dead horses an’ men lyin’ aboot. The shell-fire was the worst we’d had, an’ one o’ the Canadian divisions wi’ us was near wiped oot.’

  Mysie, absolutely horrified by what he was saying, let him carry on, knowing that if she interrupted, he would clam up. ‘The nichts was the worst, white flares goin’ up a’ the time, an’ machine-guns you couldna see though you ken’t they were there for there was lang bursts o’ firin’ whiles, an’ shells whistlin’ ower your head – if you was lucky. But the worst place, for me ony road, was Loos. A terrible battle was ragin’ afore we got there, an’ the Northumberland Fusiliers were goin’ in for the attack. Nae very mony o’ them survived.’ He halted there, overwhelmed by the memory of it. ‘Oh, Mysie, I shouldna tell you things like that – I didna mean to tell you onything.’

  ‘I wanted to ken, Doddie. Will you be goin’ back to Loos?’