A Last Goodbye

by Dee Yates

  *

  ‘A letter for you,’ the postman called across to Tom four days later. Tom let go the ewe he was examining and straightened up. He trudged across the field and took the envelope, studying the writing with a rising colour.

  ‘Aye, thanks,’ he murmured, as the older man turned to go. ‘Much obliged to you.’

  A smile spread slowly across his face. She must have been pleased to see him to be writing so promptly. Maybe she would say how much she was looking forward to her visit to the farm. He slid the letter into his shirt pocket. He would finish his morning’s work… check on the ewes that were in the in-bye, put the feed into barrels and sweep the floor of the barn. This way he could savour the moment when he would tear open the envelope and read its contents.

  The day was warm and he had stripped off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He pulled up an old kitchen chair and sat in the sunshine to read.

  Friday, 19th March.

  Dear Tom,

  I feel I must write to you without further delay. In an effort to avoid hurting you yesterday, I fear I did not make myself clear and wish to prevent misunderstanding.

  I have always valued our friendship, but it can never be more than that… a friendship. You and I are very different people and we have our own separate paths to follow. This is as it should be, for you have always been an excellent shepherd, and I hope one day to be a good doctor.

  I must moreover be perfectly honest. I do not, and never could, think of you as anything more than a dear friend. I suspect that your thoughts are otherwise, but please forgive me if I assume too much. It is better to be clear about this than to go on entertaining false hopes.

  To this end, I feel it is best that I do not visit in the summer. Maybe later in the year would be preferable, when any embarrassment has blown over.

  With my very best wishes for your future, Clara.

  The sun had gone behind a cloud. Tom got up abruptly and a chicken that had been pecking in the dirt at his feet clucked away in alarm. He screwed up the letter in his fist and thrust it deep into the pocket of his trousers. Then he grabbed his jacket from the fence, slung it over his shoulder and set off with huge strides up the side of the hill.

  6

  A Good Enough Bed

  Tired and hungry after three hours’ continuous walking, Tom closed the door quietly behind him, tugged off his coat and hung it on a hook in the porch. A clattering of dishes intruded on his solitude. Ellen was in the scullery. She had lit the fire, swept the room, hung clean washing on the rack to air and taken out of the oven a meat pie newly baked.

  ‘You’ve no need to do all this,’ he commented to her back, where she stood at the sink. Duncan’s daughter was growing up fast. He watched her move round the room with an easy grace, before he turned to warm himself at the fire. ‘I’m quite able to look after myself, tha’ knows,’ he added more kindly over his shoulder.

  ‘I ken that – I only thought you’d welcome a bit of help, especially with lambing so near.’

  ‘I do, lass. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be ungrateful.’ Tom flopped into a chair and stared into the fire.

  ‘What’s the matter, Tom?’ Ellen crossed the room and put her hand on his shoulder, massaging it gently, as she so often did for her father when he complained about his rheumatics.

  He continued to stare into the flames until his eyes began to smart with the heat. He was conscious of a small flicker of desire, almost imperceptible at first but strengthening as she ran her hand through his matted hair in an attempt to tidy it.

  ‘Look at you,’ she laughed. ‘You look gey weather-beaten the day. You need to take a comb to… Oh, Tom, what are you doing?’ For he had turned impulsively towards her as she stood there and grasped her legs within his strong arms, burying his face within her skirts and smelling the warm feminine scent of her. ‘There, there,’ she crooned, still smoothing his hair. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s the problem?’

  It was Clara who was the problem… and at the thought, his mounting desire began to trickle away. What in heaven’s name had come over him? He let go of Ellen suddenly so that she lost her balance and nearly fell into his lap.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered, taking her by the arms and righting her. ‘There’s nowt wrong that I can’t sort out myself. Now I’m going to have a wash and get out of these dirty work clothes before supper.’

  ‘Of course.’ Ellen shrugged. ‘I’ve left your supper here when you’re ready.’ She smoothed her apron and turned to go.

  ‘Thanks, lass. You’re a good girl.’

  She gave him an uncertain smile, crossed quickly to the door and went out into the dusk.

  *

  He dreamed of Ellen that night. At least it was a strange combination of both Ellen and Clara. Over and over again, he heard Clara’s voice telling him that he was a friend, nothing more… a special friend but only a friend. But the body he saw was Ellen’s: the smooth brown skin of her arms as it had been in the summer months just gone, the long fair hair tied carelessly back with a ribbon that slipped slowly down so that strands escaped and shone like spun gold in the sun’s rays, the glimpse of ankle and more, as she had lifted her skirts to climb a stile, her laugh as she teased him about his aloofness. The laugh rang in his ears and when he looked again it was Clara who was laughing, as her form retreated from him into the distance out of his reach.

  He woke in a cold sweat. The covers had fallen from the bed and he had to get up and heave them into place. Feeling his way through to the kitchen, he filled a cup with cold water and drank. A flurry of sleet was thrown against the window and he shivered and returned to his bed, pulling the covers around his chin in an effort to keep warm.

  In the following days the dream came again… and again… never quite the same but always containing these two women combined in one baffling, intangible, taunting body.

  Ellen was, of course, desirable. If it weren’t for Clara, he would have been quite drawn to the younger girl. Over the months since his arrival, she had matured unexpectedly from a lanky, ill-formed adolescent into a pleasing young woman. What was more, she was innocent of the effect that she had on him… and other men too, he suspected. Maybe it was the lack of a mother, but she seemed not to know where the line should be drawn between friendliness and what he saw as overfamiliarity.

  Tom was thinking about this as he trudged heavily down the path to the barn. He was planning to fork fresh straw into the pens in readiness for any ewes and their lambs that might need more protection than that given by a night on the hill. He did not want to be caught unprepared. The black-faced sheep were a hardy breed but, even so, he occasionally needed to give nature a helping hand. A bitter wind, laced with sleet, hit him in the face and blew his hair this way and that. His eyes surveyed the horizon, skies hanging grey and sullen above the smooth outline of the hills. They could be in for another heavy fall of snow by the time the day was out. The lower valley sides were dotted thickly with sheep now, as they came lower to escape the worst of the early spring weather. Luck would need to be on their side if they were not to have to dig any out of the snowdrifts, as had happened the previous year.

  The barn felt warm as he entered and pulled the heavy door closed behind him, shutting out the wind. It continued to whine around the corners of the building, but within there was quiet. Then he became aware of another sound mingling with that of the wind. It was a girl’s voice and she was singing. He approached slowly and, rounding a corner, came upon Ellen. She was oblivious to his presence and was forking straw into the pens. He felt a twinge of irritation that she should be doing the job that he had set himself to do but, as he watched her, the irritation subsided, to be replaced by a stirring of the desire that had unintentionally surfaced the previous week. He stood unmoving, hidden by a wooden upright, watching her.

  She had a liquid, flowing movement as she forked the hay and tossed it into the pen so that it scattered across the floor. She had lifted her skirt and tucked the hem
into her waistband to keep it clean, so her petticoats were visible. She stopped for a minute and rested the fork against the side of the pen so that she could refasten her hair, which, as ever, had come loose from its restraint and was falling around her face. She raised her arms to catch it into the ribbon and he could see the rounded outline of her breasts above her slim waist. The sight caused an involuntary groan and she turned, suddenly aware that she was not alone, and saw him.

  ‘Tom! You startled me. I was just putting out some straw for the ewes.’

  ‘So I see. I was planning to do that. That’s why I’m here.’

  She laughed. ‘I was fed up with being indoors. I needed a bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Did you now?’ He walked up to the pen, lifted the door and came in.

  ‘Are you going to help me then?’

  ‘You look as though you are managing quite well without my help.’

  She shrugged and held out a fork, laughing at him. ‘The more the merrier is what I say.’

  Tom took the fork that was offered and laid it against the bars of the pen. He stepped up to her, took her face in his hands and kissed it gently, first on the cheek and then on the lips. He drew back and looked at her.

  ‘That won’t get the straw bedded down,’ she said with a mischievous look.

  ‘Maybes! But it’ll make a good enough bed for the two of us.’ His face was unsmiling, his heart pumping violently, his voice gruff with desire. He took hold of her face again and this time the kiss was hard and insistent.

  She pulled back breathless, doubtful.

  ‘Come along, Ellen. Lay down here. I won’t do owt to hurt you. You know this is what you want. I’m not daft, tha’ knows. It’s what tha’s been after for a long time.’

  He pulled her down slowly and steadily into the straw. And when she opened her mouth to say that she didn’t know what he was talking about, he silenced her with another kiss, as he reached for the hem of her petticoats and drew them upwards in his trembling hand.

  *

  The panorama of interwoven hills was growing indistinct in the approaching dusk. Hilltops were dusted with snow and, at intervals, green reaches of trees divided one from the next. It was a raw, colourless end to a day devoid of sunshine. The snowflakes were thickening now, falling steadily from a leaden sky. At this rate the ground would soon be covered. He knew he ought to go back, but still he sat on, staring into the distance until his eyes watered with the cold.

  What in heaven’s name had got into him? Of course the girl had asked for it – the open, provocative way she had about her. But she was sixteen. Sixteen! He knew even as he thought about her, that she couldn’t be blamed for the way she was. It was highly probable, he thought with a spasm of shame, that Duncan had never enlightened his daughter as to the ways of men and women. Of course, she could not be in ignorance, living on the sheep farm and witnessing the frenzied activities of the tups at each back end. But that was to lower the intimacies of men and women to the level of the animals… which was precisely what he had done. He had vented his frustrations over Clara on this innocent child. There! That was putting it plainly. He covered his face with his hands and massaged his aching eyes.

  What if Ellen went home and told her father what had happened? He swallowed nervously and stared at the ground. He could lose his job over this. He might be forced to go back to Yorkshire in disgrace. Duncan might, heaven forbid, insist that he make a decent woman out of Ellen by marrying her.

  Perhaps he should have stayed longer with her, he thought now… given her the attention that he supposed women craved… kissed her, sat with his arm around her, showed that he cared. The things that he would want to do if it had been Clara and not Ellen with whom he had lain in the straw.

  Maybe she wouldn’t say anything to her father. Maybe she didn’t mind what he had done. Perhaps she had quite enjoyed it. Of course, it was obvious that it was her first time. She had found it painful… and there had been blood. But at the end she had seemed not to mind. When he had lifted his weight off her and sunk down in the straw at her side, she had said nothing… no word of rebuke… nothing. At the end, she had sat up cautiously and straightened her clothes, before rising unsteadily to her feet.

  ‘I’m going now,’ was her only remark, and he had grunted by way of reply, as she made her way slowly and stiffly to the entrance. A flurry of snow blew in as she struggled with the door, and stalks of straw rose into the air and settled again as it slammed shut. And then there was silence. He had stayed there, numb, exhausted, for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, before spurring himself into action. He had grabbed the fork, still leaning where he had placed it against the wooden frame of the pen, and tossed the flattened straw until there was no evidence of its occupation. Then he began to scatter straw as though his life depended on it, plunging the fork deep into each sheaf and shaking it loose over the stone floor of the barn. For over an hour he worked, until his arms ached and sweat ran in rivulets down his face and the thick dark hair of his chest was matted and damp. Finally, he had rested the fork against the corner of a pen, grabbed his coat and gone out into the late afternoon.

  Tom looked up suddenly. Night was closing in around him now. He knew the hill well but he knew too that he had only to take one awkward step to twist his ankle or send himself skidding over the wet snow. Besides, the hill sloped to a precipitous drop not far to the left of him and he did not wish to bring his short life to such an abrupt end. He rose reluctantly from the stones on which he had been sitting and began to descend.

  As his path wound downwards, he could dimly make out the whiteness of the cottages far below. As they came nearer, he could see that a light burned in Duncan’s kitchen. It dimmed as someone passed in front of the flame, then flared again. He guessed it was Ellen clearing the pots after their tea. Again guilt coursed through his body, leaving him weak and miserable. He could see now that it was indeed Ellen in the room. His steps slowed and he came to a halt, watching her quick movements as she went about her work. How young and innocent she looked. She crossed to the window and stared out, his form invisible to her in the darkness. Her face was inscrutable, but he noticed that it seemed devoid of that spark of animation that so characterised her usual bearing. As he continued to stare, she moved her fingers quickly across her cheek, as though brushing away a tear. He was aware next of her father coming up behind her. She turned slowly and buried her head in his shoulder. He lifted a hand and stroked her hair. Then she reached out and picked up the candleholder and Tom watched the wavering light as father and daughter crossed into the parlour and disappeared from his sight.

  Tom plodded across the sodden grass, stamped the snow off his boots and entered his cold, unlit cottage. With a forlorn thud, the door closed behind him.

  7

  Making the Most of the Good Weather

  Tom strode across the hill with Nell in the early morning of a beautiful summer’s day. He never ceased to be amazed by the shortness of the Scottish nights at this time of the year. Even at midnight the sky retained a luminous glow, and by three in the morning the oystercatchers, grouped along the sides of the water, were greeting the approach of dawn with shrill piping and the curlews nesting on the hills responding with their soft bubbling call.

  Beneath his feet the grass was wet with a heavy dew. Opaque white mist gathered in the valley, wreathing itself between the hills and blotting out the view of the river as it meandered through its base. Slowly it dispersed as the sun cast its warming rays along the glen. Wisps of vapour, like the discarded wool of passing sheep, clung to hilltops and became trapped in the clefts between hills. From one of these clefts came the repeated song of an invisible cuckoo.

  Tom began to call instructions to Nell, and the dog, responding immediately, ran up the hillside until she was above the highest of the grazing sheep. At a further command, she began to work the flock downwards in a solid group. If one sheep bolted, she outran it, encouraging it back to the main body as they approached the in-bye ground
. Below, the shepherd could see Ellen standing by the open gate of the sheep pen. Nell raced on ahead to prevent the leaders from overshooting their destination and, as she encouraged them into the enclosure, the others followed without trouble. Ellen closed the gate and smiled at Tom.

  ‘That was no’ so bad. I have some breakfast prepared if you care to join Father before you start.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Tom smiled and looked away again. He found it hard, after what had happened only a few months previously, to act normally with the girl. He knew what he had done was wrong, that he had acted in the aftermath of Clara's rejection. She too, he fancied, had changed. She had become quieter, at least when she was with him. Her girlishness had disappeared and been replaced with a calm composure that he took as evidence of her approaching womanhood.

  ‘A warm day for this job, it’s going to be,’ she said, as they passed a wooden crate, on which were lined up several pairs of shears. Her words were all but lost in the loud bleats of complaint that came from the captured sheep.

  Tom caught up with her and they walked side by side towards the cottages.

  ‘I’d rather a day like this. At least we can get on without having to worry that the rain will call a halt. Leastwise, I hope not.’ His eyes searched the distant hills, above which the sky was a uniform blue. He attempted a rough calculation of the time it would take them to shear this first batch of ewes. There were about a hundred and fifty that he had brought down from the hill. Providing the weather stayed dry, and he was as sure as possible that it would, they would get through them in six hours or so, though that didn’t allow for meal breaks. Duncan and Kenneth would do turnabout in bringing the sheep out of the pen. This would give each a rest from the back-breaking work of shearing. He, being the youngest and fittest – and the fastest – of the three, would keep on with the shearing. Ellen would be employed in rolling the fleeces and she and Kenneth’s wife could be relied upon to keep them well fed and supplied with mugs of tea.