by Hall, Ian
“Sorry mum,” I pushed Alice away, and we sat up straight on the couch, suitably chastised. “Looks like we’ve got an announcement to make.”
“About bloody time too,” standing in the open doorway, she tapped her foot.
Of course, it was never going to be a normal wedding, few were these days. With the honeymoon probably going to start on Saturday, it had to happen pretty bloody quick; most of the folks at the newspaper were positive that Alice had a bun in the oven, and I had a suspicion mum thought so too. Either way, we planned the big occasion in the Barclay Church at the bottom of the road, Thursday morning, 11am.
Meeting the Family
On Tuesday I walked to German HQ and told my news to Captain Möller, and apologized that I’d be missing next week’s meetings.
“You haff an excellent excuse!” he rolled his ‘v’ rather uncharacteristically. I accepted his congratulations, and we shook hands firmly. “I must supply a gift.”
I shook my head, but he waved his hands frantically, he would have none of it. “What do you need?”
I hadn’t even given presents a thought. “I don’t know.”
“Does your lady have a dress?”
“Eh, no we weren’t going to…”
“Nonsense! Phone me with height and waist measurements. I will have it delivered it to your office.” He suddenly looked a little nervous. “It will be hired, of course,”
I couldn’t help myself, I shook his hand like a long lost friend, and left the building on cloud nine. I phoned in Alice’s size almost immediately; she wouldn’t let me linger. “Five foot seven,” I said, looking across the room at her beaming face. “Waist twenty-six.”
“And the best maid?”
Oh that hit me; things had been so chaotic I hadn’t even considered it. I held my hand over the mouthpiece. “He’s asking about a bridesmaid. Frances?”
Alice nodded. “Five four, twenty-two inches.” She said with some authority.
Around four that afternoon, a man arrived at my office with two cream dresses wrapped in sheets of crepe paper.
“Oh, that settles it, we’re taking a drive tonight,” she made for the door. “Come on, we’re leaving early.”
“Where are we going?” I asked. I mean, us men must be made of the densest stuff.
“We’re going to meet my mother.”
The road to Selkirk is as twisty and turny as any in Scotland, but it did give me a chance to study the countryside. With the windows down, we drove like the lovers we were, not a care in the world, which wasn’t bad considering we were involved in cloak and dagger operations against a huge menacing regime.
Once out of Edinburgh, the A7 took us past villages I’d only just heard the names of. The coal mining centers of Newtongrange and Gorebridge soon gave way to the moorland hamlets of Middleton and Stow. By then, we were following the Gala Water to Galashiels. With the sun low to out right, the views were quite spectacular, and we vowed to bring Mum down here for picnics and days by the river. I’d never fished myself, but I knew dad had a split-cane rod and basket in the walk-in closet. Only the occasional passing German truck interrupted our reverie.
Just after six o’clock we had chips covered in vinegar and broon sauce in Galashiels, eating them from newspaper as we leaned against a wall, the last rays of direct sunshine dropping over the houses opposite.
I was surprised when Alice doubled back, going away from the signs to Selkirk. “Where are we going?”
“To the farm.”
“I thought you stayed in Selkirk?”
She shook her head as she drove through the outskirts of Galashiels and out onto the moors. “The farm’s near Selkirk.”
Ah, then we turned into the setting sun, and had to slow down. The rays directly into our eyes picked up every dirty mark and smear on the windscreen, and made any kind of forward sight difficult.
By the time we drove down from the moor, I saw a large river ahead. “What’s that?”
“That, dear heart, is the Tweed, we fished there a lot when we were kids; its proper name is Caddonfoot, but folks down here call it Cadd’n-fit.”
Her mention of ‘kids’ in the plural brought up a new question, and I was rather embarrassed I hadn’t asked it before. I knew nothing of Alice’s siblings, if any, and didn’t really know what to anticipate at our destination; ‘the farm’. It took me a couple of minutes to work out the right words. “So who do I expect to see when we get there?” I thought my choice of words quite clever.
She broke into a huge grin, obviously excited to see her family again. “Well, mum’s name is Agnes, she’s a bit on the portly side but, she works the farm as hard as dad ever did. Deirdre is my wee sister, she’s probably eighteen by now, then there’s Harold, the stablehand, he’s probably still there, he’s been a member of the farm so long, I can’t remember life without him.”
We turned sharply down towards the river, then burst out onto a long, narrow bridge over the Tweed. I got a fantastic view downstream until the river disappeared round a corner. The scenery was simply breathtaking. Round the corner we drove along a narrow road hardly wide enough for the car.
“The big house is up there.” Alice pointed to the left, “Ashiestiel House; used to be the home of Sir Walter Scott. My family owns Ashiestiel Farm, next door, well, just up the river a bit.”
The farmhouse was almost as I’d imagined. Two stories, large brick-built, a large courtyard and a barn opposite. Next to the farm sat a tractor and a motorbike. The whole scene was nestled in trees almost as tall as the chimneys of the house.
As we braked near the front, a large man opened the door, a shotgun under his arm.
“Harold!” Alice cried, almost jumping out when the car was still moving. She flung herself into his arms, and his face nestled onto her shoulder, surprise mingled with gratitude. “I sought you ver neffer cominck back.” He said, his accent thick yet comfortable, the gun now hanging at her back.
She stepped back and with a wide arm, presented me. “This is James Baird.”
I immediately got the ‘bad eye’ of the protective father figure, and he had a shotgun. Yes, I was having an illicit relationship with his charge, yes we’d frolicked naked. I shook his hand nervously, certain that my confession was written all over my face. “Nice to meet you,” although he smiled, he still managed to look unconvinced.
Alice grabbed my hand, and I followed reluctantly, unable to get myself into the same euphoric mood. “Come on,” I got pulled into the large hallway, then towards the kitchen. A woman stood, hands on hips in the doorway. “Mamma!”
I gave them a moment to first tangle, then hug tightly. Despite my presence, ‘Mamma’ closed her eyes and cuddled into her daughter’s neck for a moment.
“You bring a boy.” He pushed Alice gently away, and brushed her apron with her hands.
For the first time in the re-union, Alice looked slightly uneasy. “Yes, Mamma, this is James Baird.”
I stepped forward, expecting a handshake, but got a hug, the same as her daughter. I smelled a combination of baking and cooked meat from her, or perhaps that came from the kitchen.
“Hello, Mrs. Howes.” I said as she broke the embrace.
“Call me Mamma,” she corrected. “Even Harold does,”
“Okay,” I gave a genuine smile, feeling instantly inducted into the fold.
“He is just as you described him.” Mamma said, and I looked at Alice surprised she’d mentioned me and not said.
“I came here briefly after Carstairs,” Alice admitted.
“Yes,” Mamma said with a smug smile. “This is the second visit in just a few months, I’m expecting news.”
Her voice carried a slight foreign accent mixed with her strong country tone, but it was not unexpected; twenty odd years with a German would do that to a person.
At that instant, Agnes, for it could only be she, burst through the front door. Her boots were dirty, her hands grubby, but neither hid the good-looking teenager, nor the cu
rves underneath the shabby dungarees. I watched the two women hug fiercely, and could not mistake the beauty they both carried. Considering the rather homely mother, I could only imagine the lines of the handsome German father.
As quick as they’d got together, they sprang apart. Still holding her sister’s hand, Alice beamed with delight. “Sis, this is James.”
Agnes closed on me like a tiger approaching a tethered goat. “Hello, James.” Her voice was like thick honey, her eyes shone with the fire I had sometimes witnessed in her sister. She accepted my offered hand, and held it gently, caressing my fingers.
Suddenly they were slapped away. “Aggie!” Alice snapped, her voice fierce, but her face smiling. “Stop it, you little minx!”
In an instant, her eyes lost their magic, and I was no longer enthralled. “Hello,” I said, my tongue still tied from before.
“Wow,” Agnes grinned. “He’s easy.” She scoffed.
Alice stood, her hands on hips mirroring her mother’s pose. “Agnes is the area’s biggest flirt. She’s got half the boys wrapped round her finger.”
“I’m not surprised.” I said, regaining my wits. I turned to Mamma. “I see where they got their looks.”
My flattery hit its mark, and Mamma grinned, her face showing embarrassment. “Come on by, I’ll put the kettle on.”
It seems every kitchen has its table, and Ashiestiel Farm was no exception. We sat around the dark worn wood, and told of our intention to marry.
“You’re not…?” Agnes asked the obvious question.
“No.” Alice stated, brooking no further discussion of the point.
Mamma shook her head. “So why the hurry?”
“It’s just time, that’s all.”
“No.” Mamma mimicked her daughter’s rebuke. “You must have a reason.”
Alice sighed, looked at me. We’d examined a few excuses, but none had held any water. I shrugged my shoulders. “We’ve got to go to London,” Alice began. There’s a job we’ve got to do down there.”
“War work?” Mamma asked.
“Yes, Mamma, it’s ‘war work’.”
“Then that’s all you have to say.” It’s amazing what you will accept under the auspices of certain phrases. This all-encompassing term seemed to mollify everyone’s questions. “You two do love each other, right?”
We both chorused our ‘yes’, and everyone laughed, and chinked tea mugs over the table. It wasn’t until Harold had left to do his chores, and Alice was working with Mamma over the sink that Agnes motioned me outside. The vast back garden was totally taken up by vegetables, some of which I didn’t recognize.
“So you’re part of MI6?” Agnes kept her blunt side going. I hesitated for a long time before she spoke again. “I know of my sister’s work. We were both in the Auxiliaries when she got recruited for Intelligence.”
My jaw dropped I’m sure. “Alice was in the Auxiliaries?”
She made a mocking hand-to-her-lips gesture. “She didn’t tell you? How patriotic.”
“No, she didn’t.” I refused a cigarette, and waited until she’d lit hers before continuing. “Are you still?”
Agnes nodded, and again I caught a glimmer of the minx as she pulled the smoke into her lungs. She was indeed a stunner. “There’s not much to do around here, but the area is completely void of Germans. So you’re not MI6? What then?” She caught my continued reticence. “Come on, out with it; no secrets here.”
“Different agency,” I said, determined not to divulge any more. “But I’m involved in the same kind of work. We all have the same bosses if you go high enough.”
“I’ll bet we do.”
“Come on,” I said changing the subject. “Give me a tour.”
And for the next half hour we walked the garden, then down to the banks of the Tweed, slow-flowing and quiet. Ashiestiel House had the fishing rights, but the farm had limited access. I swore one day I’d live in enough peace to try it all out.
When we got back to the house, the kitchen was filled with the smell of good soup, and there was a bottle of Schnapps on the table.
Bound for London Town
I’d never had such fare before.
The ‘kale soup’ contained more meat and vegetables that I’d seen in months, and the stew that followed showed the abundance of the countryside in spades.
At night, we staggered into Alice’s bedroom, our heads soused with far too much Schnapps. I don’t remember much of the ‘after-evening’ events, but I do remember seeing the bedroom door ajar at one point, and Agnes’s face poking through, grinning at me.
I never mentioned it to Alice. Ever.
The next morning we filled the car full of illicit petrol, farm issue dyed red, but we didn’t care because no one ever checked anyway, and left them with a detailed map of how to get to the apartment.
When we got back to Edinburgh, the boot was full of vegetables, a few cuts of beef, yes actual beef, and a host of memories.
I hired a third dress, one for Agnes, and with just a day to go, found myself in the church, doing a run-through. Rather than in the vestry as planned, we stood in the church proper. “I thought it was going to be a small wedding?” I said as an aside to my ‘intended’.
“Dummy,” Frances spoke first. “You left mum to do the planning. She’s got half the block coming, and she’s been on the telephone non-stop.”
Luckily I had enough money for a few rooms at the Links Hotel just up the road, for the extended family.
The most surprised person invited was my old friend Raymond Gillespie. The last time I’d spoken was immediately after the victory parade on Princes Street, nearly nine months before, but I’d gotten his address from University Admissions and took an early train to Cupar in Fife.
Auchtermuchty wasn’t exactly on the beaten track, but with pile of cash on me, the taxi fare from the train station was chump change. I watched Raymond’s expression change from complete gawk to that of just pure astonishment.
Needless to say, he agreed immediately, and we returned together to Edinburgh deep in conversation, catching up with each other’s lives.
It had been a hastily-organized event, but on Thursday afternoon we all gathered at the church.
Yes, Agnes looked gorgeous in her dress, but I was simply spellbound at the sight of my wife-to-be; she appeared radiant as she walked up the aisle, clutching onto Harold’s arm, the bridal march blasting into the eaves from the large pipe organ. Alice had simply never looked better, and in that moment, I knew I was the luckiest man on the planet.
Once the ceremony was over, we walked in procession up the diagonal path across the Links up the hill to the hotel. It was a hundred yard walk, no-one saw the point in hiring cars. I remember seeing many such processions in my time on Barclay Terrace. Golfers stopped and applauded, we were celebrities for a fleeting moment.
Yes, again we drank too much, but there were no untoward incidents, apart from Agnes the minx cupping my arse as we danced. She pulled me so tight to her that nothing was left to the imagination. “Have a good time with my sister tonight,” she said sexily as the music faded. We made our way back to the tables, and I swore never to be alone with her again; she was far too much of a woman for me, and literally scared the daylights out of me.
With the wedding firmly behind us, we boarded the London Express first thing on Saturday morning, and I mean first thing; five past seven in the morning. I’d studied the route; the train started in Edinburgh, and would travel down the eastern coast until England got fat. We found a quiet compartment in a carriage near the buffet car, and sat in forward-facing left-side seats to get the most from the forthcoming view. Before the train left the Lothians I had already congratulated myself in my forward planning, and had my first beer before the train passed through the coastal town of Dunbar. Heck, the train even had a barber on board, but since I’d just had it trimmed for the wedding, I couldn’t in all honesty avail myself of the service.
The one thing I hadn’t planned was
the fall back down to Earth. Three days spent in the country, in wedding plans and the wedding itself, had rid me of the constant reminder of the German menace. The London train brought it back with a vengeance, and we saw hosts of uniforms at every juncture.
To mitigate my feelings, I hugged Alice closer, and luxuriated in their jealous stares. I was on my honeymoon, dammit, and headed for the Ritz in London.
The train may have been called the ‘Express’, and the scenery changed every second, but even with the moving slide-show outside our window, with extended stops in Newcastle, York and Doncaster, it still took us a grueling eight hours to get to London.
In King’s Cross I was shocked. If I’d thought there were Germans on every corner in Edinburgh, in London it was two, maybe three times worse. We’d had our papers checked once at Waverley before boarding, and once on the train between York and Doncaster.
We heard the challenge ‘Papiere’ three times before we walked out of King’s Cross Station onto the streets of London.
The taxi rank outside also dwarfed that of its poor cousin in the north. At least twenty cabs sat waiting, the drivers either inside or standing chatting to each other. We walked towards the head of the line, and the driver hurried towards us, grabbing our single case. “Where to, sir?”
“The Ritz, please,” I said as if it were an everyday occurrence. I knew unscrupulous taxi drivers took the long way just to boost their earnings, and I didn’t intend to get caught out. I also knew the route had a ‘tube’ route, but we both wanted to see the city, even if it were the boring non-descript parts of it.
We drove along Euston Road, and in parts the buildings damaged in the so-called Battle of London had already been cleared to the ground, and new structures rose. I’d heard the fighting had been street to street in places, and again, some of the standing buildings had bullet holes chipped out of the stone to testify to the fierce resistance. We turned south down Great Portland Street and were greeted by whole blocks of buildings gone, reduced to the ground, the large stones being worked by hundreds of masons chipping away. I spoke to the driver for the first time. “Bad fighting here?”
