by Jess Smith
Megan screamed at him before lunging at his throat, vainly trying to wrench those horrendous words from it. ‘You listen to me, rat of a drunken coward, my man is safe and well. If he were hurt, never mind dead, I’d feel it in here.’ She threw off her shawl, ripped buttons from her cardigan and punched the exposed flesh. ‘Here beats a heart filled with devotion for Bruar Stewart. If so much as a wasp were to sting my man I’d feel it in here!’
O’Connor lifted the crumpled shawl and gave it back to her. He said nothing as he set off down to Kirriemor, big Rory at his side.
Megan’s adrenaline surge left her cold and angry. She wanted to scream at her father-in-law and remind him of the Seer. A certain red-bearded, one-eyed prophet of dark futures. But little Nicholas was painfully crying for attention. Perhaps the small infant also felt the loss of his father. Nature had not formed words in his infantile head, but all the sobbing and neglect from his mother told him to make as much noise as was possible to get the cuddles and care he needed. Megan curled her arms under his small body and held him to her bosom. At her touch he stopped crying. Rachel too had ceased weeping and was holding her arms out towards her child. Megan laid him by his mother and said, ‘Rachel, life has dealt you a terrible blow, but I know you will get over it. I’m worried about the older men brawling with the drink in them, though. If big Rory should get fired up, that would be worse than Jimmy’s passing.’
‘Why, in heaven’s name, sister, should you imagine anything worse than Jimmy never coming home to see his bonnie laddie grow into manhood?’
‘Because Rory has taken his pain to Kirriemor with O’Connor to drown his heart in a bottle of whisky, and God help us all if any of those ploughmen says so much as a black word to him.’ Megan’s brow furrowed with worry as she tried to make her sister see the seriousness of the situation.
Nicolas puckered his lips; Rachel pushed a milky breast to him and said, ‘I don’t think our good-father would be so stupid as to lose his senses when he has us to look after. And as for O’Connor, well, he’s not as bad these days as he once was. Let’s not add any more sorrow to our heavy hearts than we have already in this black time.’
The baby’s eyelids closed, his belly was full; she laid him down. ‘Megan, go you and put more sticks on the fire. I’ll join you in a minute and we will hold hands and chant away the rest of this night. If the men feel the other side of an angry ploughman’s fist, then maybe our old ancestral spirits will intervene, after all, my Jimmy’s with them now.’
‘Well, maybe aye and maybe no, but I feel the ancient spirits don’t have much power in these evil times.’
‘Oh now, sister, you mustn’t go and get the weakness in you.’
‘Tell me then, Rachel, when you and I sat in this very spot chanting for hours to ward off the badness, why did Jimmy end his life the way he did?’
‘I have no answers to war, sister, but if our good father and his friend take a fall, then it’s their own doings and nothing to do with the ancient spirit guides. Now I’m too tired to sit in vigil by the fire, instead I’ll rest here with my baby. In sleep me and Jimmy will keep ourselves warm.’ With those words said Rachel crawled under heavy woollen blankets. Megan kissed her head and they hugged each other until the pain of loss subsided.
Bruar would not forgive her if she let him down; so by the fire she waited out the night for Rory. As the fire burned to its last embers she heard voices, easily recognised; it was the two wanderers. Not wanting to be seen up at such an hour, she darted into her tent and gave thanks for their safe return. She listened like a mother hen to the men’s sniggering and muff led laughter in the dead of the night. Then she heard a voice, one never heard in the campsite before, the voice of a woman. She sat up in bed and distinctly heard, not one, but two female voices. ‘What the hell are they up to?’ she thought. For a while she listened to the banter; stupid, drunk talk. Unable to contain herself, she stormed into O’Connor’s tent. ‘You two have a nerve, bringing back these slip morts! [loose women]’
O’Connor stared at Rory with astonishment. ‘Get that bitch seen to or I’ll take a whip across her arse, she takes far too much to do with us menfolk.’ He stooped and apologised to the women, adding, ‘Don’t be taking notice of her, she’s mental.’
Before Rory could prevent her, she lunged at the Irishman’s throat and began to squeeze, screaming, ‘What a bastard you are! You took my father-in-law into a bloody pub, and him just lost his son; not content with that, you bring him home a whore, a blasted reject from some smelly ploughman’s bed!’
Rory, full of alcohol, threw her to the ground and slapped her hard across the jaw. She flinched, both in anger and embarrassment, then ran back to her now cold bed. For what was left of the night she sobbed into her feather-stuffed pillow, until sleep at last found its way into her young, and still easily hurt, mind.
Next morning she rose before everyone else. She broke a small hole in the frozen ice of the burn and washed her face and hands with carbolic soap, then set off without breakfast. Older and wiser in her hurt, she went in the hope of hawking an odd scourer or two.
Money was scarce, though, on account of the war. The lack of food was apparent in and around the hill houses of Kirriemor. Children appeared thinner, old folks sicker. Not one single penny was to be had, so with a full basket and empty belly she set off to visit the only person who would give her a welcome, Doctor Mackenzie.
‘Come away in, Megan, how nice to see you. I hope there’s no ill health among you during this cold spell.’
‘No sir, we are doing away fine under the circumstances.’
‘Something is troubling you, though. Is it the lack of news on Bruar?’
‘Oh aye, he is never far from my mind, but it’s more his father’s carry-ons that perplex me.’
‘I saw him and O’Connor stumble from the pub last night, but in times like these it’s understandable. Poor man, the loss of a son is hard.’
‘I know what you’re saying, doctor, but big Rory has a demon in him, one that only drink releases. I don’t have to tell you, surely?’
‘Men have difficulty displaying their feelings, lassie, sometimes they drink to forget. You and Rachel, being from the Macdonalds, do the chanting, and if it works for you and you believe in it then fine, but remember that the Highland Stewarts are different.’
‘I always feel the better of seeing and speaking with you. I’ll go home now and worry no more on the men; if they want to drink and fornicate then that’s their own business.’
Mackenzie laughed at her comment and said, ‘I’m curious why you should use a word like that. Surely drinking alcohol doesn’t involve sleeping with women?’
‘Oh, I’m not stupid doctor; last night the men took two whores into their beds, and you should have heard the moans from that tent. I call that fornicating.’
He whispered to his visitor not to tell anyone in the town, for fear that the females concerned were cheating on their husbands, them being away at the fighting, or ploughmen working elsewhere. It might bring bad feeling from other women if they found out, so it was better to say nothing.
Megan assured him, ‘If neighbours found they were slipping off their knickers under a tinker’s canvas, they’d be tarred and feathered, doctor, never mind bad feelings.’
A loaf of bread and a quart of butter were pushed into her bag before they bade each other goodbye. As he watched this fiery lassie walk briskly up the road, the doctor thought on how wise and faithful she was; it was hard to imagine she’d not even left her teen years yet.
As she turned the last bend in the road out of Kirriemor, a woman she recognised as the housekeeper of Cortonach Castle called out to her. ‘Are you one of the tinker girls? Do you want a job at the castle?’
Megan went over and said that yes, she was a tinker, and what manner of job did she have in mind?
The housekeeper told her that several workers, including two stable boys and three house staff had left to take up arms. Because of this there was a dire sh
ortage of good working hands and they were sorely missed from the castle. ‘If you know anyone, there’s a small wage with board and lodgings of course. I have to go, the lady of the house has this very day received news that her beloved husband, Sir Angus, has lost his life in Belgium, a terrible thing, just awful. Of course, you tinkers wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
Megan felt the anger tighten around her chest, her throat dried.
‘Madam, my heart is sad for the mistress of the castle, but my sister’s man Jimmy was killed over two weeks ago, and my own young man as we speak is also fighting with his comrades for the freedom of this fair land. So you see, missus, we’re all suffering, from her ladyship in her rich castle to us in our tents. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. It turns my gut to spend a moment longer in your starch-faced company.’
The woman hadn’t meant to offend. Megan turned with a swish of her shawl and hurried off. The housekeeper watched the winsome youngster disappear round a sharp bend in the road, leaving her with a faint smell of carbolic soap and a feeling of shame that one with her years should need to be told off by a young lass.
On arriving back at the tent, Megan threw down a bundle of sticks she’d gathered by the roadside on her journey home. Branches broken by the weight of snow were easy firewood, and saved her from wrestling with big ones deeper inside the forest. The ladies of the night had departed. Rachel was cooking a pot of watery soup, and the two men had left to snare anything mad enough to venture out from burrows or dens. She didn’t feel it necessary to bring up the previous night’s visitors who had risked their honour in O’Connor’s tent, but she did tell Rachel about the housekeeper from the castle needing extra hands.
This sounded promising to Rachel. ‘Why don’t you and I go and see her? Anything would be better than freezing to death here in these tents. If they are so desperate for help, then I might be able to take wee Nicholas as well. Poor wee mite, if I don’t eat proper food my milk will not sustain him. You said yourself the men are going to get worse with the drink. Surely anything is better than this existence?’
Megan knew all her sister said made good sense, but her place was here. Here in the campsite seeing to the fire and keeping a watchful eye on her good-father. She could not go away while he supped with the devil, though the pain in her jaw still stung from his handiwork the night before.
That night the men failed to come home, and the girls reckoned a visit to the red-lipsticked females was taking place. This time they would be in their houses, and that meant one thing, that their menfolk, whether soldiers or ploughmen, were not at home.
Next morning Megan and Rachel, with wee Nicholas snugly secured in two shawls for extra warmth, were standing outside the gigantic structure of Cortonach Castle. Mrs Simpson, the housekeeper Megan had met the previous day, opened the great creaking doors and beckoned them in. Perhaps it was the result of the talking to she’d received the day before, but the dear lady was kindness itself. For the first time in a long while meat and sweet jam found a welcome in their neglected stomachs. Rachel looked around the grand kitchen, with its rows of high shelves full of pots and pans of every size. Mrs Simpson politely asked if she might be allowed to hold the baby—such a long time since she’d had a youngster in her arms. Rachel handed Nicholas to her willingly, happy at the freedom to wander around the kitchen. Five large ovens gave out penetrating heat; she felt it reach her bones. Megan stood looking out of the window and thought how fine the gardens and grounds surrounding the place were; they brought to mind a painting she’d seen some place.
Later, as they chatted around a large pine table smelling of fresh blood congealed on three hare ready to be butchered, the door opened. Mrs Simpson almost jumped to attention. Flicking biscuit crumbs from her apron, she tugged it into line with her skirt. ‘Good morning, Ma’am.’
‘Hello Simpy,’ said a thin, gentle-sounding lady coming down the stone steps. ‘Oh, and pray tell me who it is we have here.’ She was smiling at Nicholas with arms outstretched. The housekeeper handed over the boy without a word. Rachel, like Mrs Simpson, held herself straight and rigid in the presence of Lady Cortonach.
It was Megan who snatched her nephew back and said, ‘This is my sister’s boy, and we’ve come for a job.’
Angry at her abruptness, the housekeeper apologised, stuttering an explanation.
‘Oh Simpy, I’m pleased you asked the tinkers, we certainly need help with so many staff gone away because of this terrible war.’ She felt for a handkerchief folded neatly at the turn of a brown cardigan sleeve and dabbed her eyes, before saying, ‘It would be nice to have a child in the house, it’s so very dull and so empty without children.’ She was almost pleading, through tear-filled eyes. Even Megan, who trusted no non-tinker apart from the doctor, felt moved.
Rachel, herself still in mourning, saw how hurt the lady was and spoke softly, assuming a genteel accent, ‘Madam, me and my bairn would like nothing better than to come here. I’ll work all the hours you want, and I know my sister here has a strong back; she can carry her weight in cut firewood, she can. Isn’t that the case, Megan?’
Megan could hardly believe how much her sister grovelled: she felt ashamed of it and retorted, as she headed for the door, ‘Listen, you come here and work your fingers into whittles if you like, but I’m keeping one eye on my scourers, the other on Rory Stewart.’
Rachel apologised profusely, took her baby and ran after her furious sister, who dashed from the house without another word. She didn’t catch up until she was halfway home, leaving Lady Cortonach and Simpy bewildered.
If argument and swear words could paint their venom, then the air around the campsite was without doubt a vivid blue and red. Each sister shouted the odds like never before, with Rachel defending her use of a posh voice and listing the benefits of not rearing a child in a campground hell. With Annie and Jimmy both lost, she had no reason to continue with such a degrading lifestyle. Megan called her everything from traitor to buck mort, which is tinker tongue for a woman who deserts her culture and takes a place among settled folk. From then on, the ties that had bound the family were broken.
Next day, after Nicholas had been fed, his mother washed him till his little cheeks were like red apples, packed what belongings she could and left for a life of servitude in Cortonach Castle. Megan cried all day, refusing to cook a bite for the others, or wash her face. Her only sister had deserted her after just a brief meeting with strangers. What if her baby was put away, given to some maid to rear, what if she was whipped for not working hard enough? Why could she not be like her—proud and accepting the old ways regardless? But she was certain, after a little thought, that Rachel wouldn’t like the work, and would come home. For a short while this cheered her up. After a month, however, with not so much as a whistle from Rachel, she became frantic with worry and decided to visit the castle.
At first her feet faltered on the steps leading to the large, ominous-looking building. Waiting at the door was uncomfortable, after all what would she find? Her sister, always frail and thin, might be full of whip marks, maybe even have two black eyes or perhaps broken arms. When no one answered the bell, her fear turned to anger, and running off, she soon found an open door at the rear of the house and let herself into the kitchen. On the range, pots simmered with pleasant aromas. Glancing quickly around and seeing no sign of her sister she feared the worst; that perhaps she and her baby had been roasted for the rich people to feast on.
‘Hello, my dear,’ it was Mrs Simpson. ‘Come to help us?’
‘Where are Rachel and the babe?’ From a large cupboard came her answer; Rachel appeared carrying a large container of meal.
‘Megan, what a lovely surprise! I thought you were too busy watching those drunkards to visit.’
‘And I thought you were paggered!’ (dead)
‘Don’t be so daft, this is the best place in the world! People are kindness itself. I only work for six hours a day, have a comfortable bed and lots to eat
. Look, feel how much weight I’ve put on.’ She grabbed Megan’s hand and ran it over her ribcage, which was to the eye fuller than when last they met. Her hair shone with cleanliness and her usually pale complexion glowed warm peach. It seemed that Megan’s fears were unfounded—but what of the baby, where was he?’
‘Come with me, we’ll find the mistress with Nicholas. Simpy, can I have leave?’
‘Yes, my dear, I think I heard them in the garden.’
Megan followed behind a stranger; at least that’s what she seemed like, all spotless in starched apron and pure white cotton blouse, three inches of dark tweed skirt hung immaculately. She wore grey woollen stockings, and shiny brogue leather shoes. A stiff, crisp white servant’s hat topped her well-groomed hair, tightly pulled into a bun held in place by four pins.
Rachel led her into the garden towards a picturesque summer house, twined in early rosebuds of pink. Lilac trees filled the air with their fragrance.
‘Madam, hello, I’ve brought my sister to see,’ a brief pause before she finished the sentence, ‘your charge, little Nicholas.’
Megan glided towards her nephew who sat on the knee of a fattish lady, his own nanny. He was dressed in blue and with a broad belt round his middle, a brass buckle in its centre. He was unrecognisable in his frilly pantaloons and blue bonnet. He gurgled and giggled at Lady Cortonach who sat opposite, and tickled him under his chubby little chin with a spoon, before dipping it into a silver dish filled with some kind of pink pudding. He loved it, and showed no visible sign of remembering his aunt, as she stiffened before this scene of utter tranquillity.
Unable to see any semblance of her kin, she turned and ran off into the rhododendron bushes lining the driveway. Rachel ran after her.
‘Please try to see it my way. Tinkers are waifs of the past; we don’t have a place in society. Here I can watch my baby grow healthy and strong, can enjoy good food, be content.’
‘You’ve given the bairn to a toff! How in God’s name can any mother do that! Mammy will be spinning in her grave. What kind of a mother are you?’ I hate what you’ve become, and never want to look upon your face, not as long as breath’s in me!’
