by Jess Smith
The brown, leather-upholstered buggy with its handsome driver held her gaze until it disappeared up the road. She smiled and ran a finger over the lovely gift hanging around her neck, before going in and spending a long Christmas Day with her other friend, who was still sleeping soundly beneath the quilt. Night came, and with it a blizzard unlike any she’d encountered in her life before, even wilder than that night she had searched for help in the Angus Glens. She listened as Mother Foy snored in unison with a nagging wind blowing smoke down the chimney. She felt lonely, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Christmas Day, and look at me hunched over a reekie hearth. No family, saving this old gypsy and a bowdie wagon.’ In the gorse field the blizzard was laying walls of banked snow, choking trees and pathways. Mother Nature was giving midwinter his place.
She closed her tired eyes and went back home in her thoughts. Home to stand over Annie’s grave. She visualised the secret spot; now also covered in a blanket of snow. Beneath that covering, sleeping snowdrops and wild crocuses would soon be pushing up through the ground and she so wished that her dear mother could reappear with them, if only for a minute. She remembered the last time she saw her before sickness stole on her, sitting at the campfire stirring tattie soup. ‘I miss you, Mammy, and Rachel,’ she whispered to her memory. ‘Can you see us, Mammy, from wherever you are? Or do you stay sleeping, forever? And what of Rachel, do you walk about America like a toff? Wee Nicholas will be getting big. I wonder what kind of Christmas you are both enjoying.’ Lost in a reverie of self-pity she rested her head on her narrow single bed. The wagon was rocking violently; she worried it might topple but knew enough of the wagons to understand they were of hardy structure. The wind must have changed direction, because the smoke ceased to blow down the chimney; instead it was sucked up and away leaving a red, glowing hearth. The rocking, coupled with the cosy hearth, soon found her eyelids heavy, and at long last she fell asleep. ‘What will come with the new day?’ she thought, as she drifted off.
TWELVE
‘Open up those blasted curtains and let some of that bright winter sunshine fill the place.’ The old woman, having slept all night and half the day before, had awakened with a crabbit head and was shivering cold. ‘Hurry up and get the fire lit. What possessed you to let it out? No gypsy worth her salt would see cold ash in a hearth. Tells me there’s less of the gypsy in you than you think. And where did you put my baccy?’
Megan rose to her feet, fists firmly on her hips. ‘Listen here, you moaning-faced old crab, I’m preparing the fire, and when I’ve rubbed some of this black ash off my hands I’ll make some tea. Pull open the curtains and fill your own pipe.’
Both looked at each other and burst out laughing.
‘I’m glad you’re feeling better. For a while in the night you’d stop snoring and I thought the bucket was getting kicked.’
The old woman, not having heard that saying, looked puzzled; but when Megan explained it, she laughed louder. This time, however, a strange crackle could be heard deep in her chest, prompting Megan to say, ‘I think you might have a chesty problem. Do you want me to fetch a doctor?’
‘Me with a doctor? What does a doctor know that I don’t?’
‘He spends his whole life studying ill folk. My doctor back in Kirriemor can heal every ailment, so I expect others can too.’
‘I know the herbs, the roots, the mushrooms. I also know me body is done. Now give us a fill of me pipe.’
‘But what if there’s something in your chest?’
‘The baccy will keep it company!’
She could see that arguing with Mother Foy was pointless, so relented and brought the box of tobacco, pipe and matches from the small cupboard above the bed. The old lady was still feeling unwell, so decided to stay put in bed. Megan helped her outside to toilet behind a holly bush. This brought more laughter, as the old woman sat too close and felt the holly prick her bare bottom.
Back inside, she washed in a small enamel basin while Megan dusted the two ornamental china dogs on a narrow shelf at the back window, then remade the bed.
An hour or so later a warm fire heated the heart of the place. They’d breakfasted on eggs and bacon, a gift from Bridget. Stewed tea grew black on the stove as the pair chatted over things. Bull Buckley filled their conversation, him and a certain Irishman called Michael Riley.
‘He’s got the hot eye on you; I felt it on the way back yesterday. Are you going to tell him about the poor soldier who waits for you somewhere?’
‘He will be a friend and that’s all. See this pretty golden necklace? Well, it was a Christmas gift. Do you like it? And no, I don’t see what business it is of anybody where my man is.’
‘Look, girlie, I’m an old woman, coming near the end, I am. If life has taught me anything, then it’s always start with coming clean. If he knows all about you, then no one will get hurt. Do you see what I’m saying? Now give us another fill of me pipe, and a fill of me teacup which has gone as black as that bloody baccy.’
Megan handed over the tobacco, thoughts running through her head. Should she tell Michael about Bruar, or keep her man a secret? Once again, like fingers of grey mist, doubt and confusion filled her mind.
However, the day wound down to a quiet close without a visit from anyone from the farm. Mother Foy was both disappointed and relieved. Relieved that she’d found a peaceful day, and disappointed no one paid a visit. ‘Contrary thoughts of an old fool,’ she thought.
Megan was glad that Michael stayed away, at least until her head was cleared, or was it her heart? She didn’t know, but one thing she did feel, was that her legs needed stretched. ‘A long, brisk walk and I’ll come back to prepare a light meal,’ she promised her old friend, adding, ‘you get another sleep, it can only do you good.’
Leaving Mother Foy with a fresh brew and her baccy tin, she set off along the gorse field road. Only knowing one way, she found herself heading in the direction of the farm. There was only an hour left of daylight, so why not pop in and see Beth.
Just where she’d left her the old horse munched away on a bundle of hay in the giant barn. Seeing a familiar face the big shire raised, then lowered her head in a nodding motion, and looked around as if at someone entering behind her. ‘You looking for the old woman, Beth? Yes, of course you are. Well, she’s in bed, and between you and me, that’s where she’ll be, until the crackle from her lungs goes.’
‘Are you always in the habit of talking to horses?’ Startled, she turned to see, leaning on a wooden barn post, handsome Michael.
‘Aye, dogs and birds and worms and snakes—in fact, if it crawls, wriggles, flies and canters, then I’ll have a conversation with it. Hello, did you have a nice day yesterday?’
He did not answer, nor laugh at her remarks, just stared with those smouldering eyes. Those forbidden thoughts she had tried so desperately to eradicate came slinking like a thousand hungry foxes seeking their prey. He was the prey. Both their bodies met in a tight embrace like two adders coiling around each other. It had been so long: her skin tingled, every sex-starved inch of it. In seconds they were ripping at each other’s clothes until they stood before each other’s bare flesh, she naked apart from a thin torn petticoat, his torso like a stone statue at the gate of a stately home. For moments she ignored him, teasing him. He kissed her hands, her arms, and her neck. Very slowly, in rhythm with his advances, she relaxed herself, and he kissed her half-opened lips. They lay down on the soft hay, caressing each other’s warm, youthful bodies. His tongue opened her soft lips; he thrust it gently inside her mouth. She tasted it. Muscles flexed and danced from his powerful neck to toes that were finding the contours of her slender legs. Then when she thought this passion, like the forbidden apple, would burst out through her beating heart, she slowly opened those slender throbbing legs and freely gave what had been promised to another man.
Afterwards she lay in his arms. A long time passed with nothing but the sound of Beth munching and breathing. He spoke first. ‘Ah, for sure you’re a
real beauty, Megan. I cannot let you drift out of my life like a wind-blown seed. Please stay with me, my pretty colleen, please say you will.’ Again, unable to control his body, he was exploring her entirety. She was like mercury through his fingers. He was ravenous yet gentle, and she responded with willingness that frightened yet excited her. She was lost again in the arms of raw passion. Later, as she lay in his strong embrace, she said, ‘Today I came here convinced it was to see Beth, but my heart knew it was to find you. Yes, I so want to stay, to lie like we did this day... but...’ Before another word fell from her quivering lips, Bruar flashed into her mind, pointing a stern finger at her naked form. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. ‘It is impossible.’
‘Then why did you give of yourself so freely? It felt so right. Tell me.’
For a minute silence fell upon them. She shuffled her bare feet in the chaff-covered ground. Beth gave a snort, then a whine, as if telling her not to stay another minute, but to run and never come back, fool that she was. Still, what kind of person would use another and not be truthful. It wasn’t her way. Cupping his face in her small but firm hands she said, ‘I am a married woman.’
A look of utter disgust spread across his face. He lifted his scattered clothes and hastily dressed. His strong Catholic religion and upbringing forbade the cohabiting with another man’s wife. Adultery was a dreaded sin. It was looked upon with horror by society. Quickly he finished dressing, and without a word left her alone with the horse.
Her inner self was merciless. ‘You deserve to be whipped,’ it told her, ‘making sheep’s eyes like a true hussy at the innocent man.’ On it went, ‘And what of Bruar, how could you do that to him?’
Tears streamed down her face as she begged his forgiveness, shouting it aloud as if he were there, a witness to this abomination. His lassie taking another man like a bit of free food, picking him up like a pheasant left behind after a day’s hunting, shot and discarded.
Such was the power of her guilt she took no notice of the biting wind now driving yet another snow storm into a new night. Soon she was sobbing into Mother Foy’s arms. ‘I knew it would come, it just had to. My sister was right, I’m a hussy. Oh, how I wish I was stone dead!’
‘So you been playing with fire then, eating at the forbidden fruit. Well, I did forewarn you, but never mind. We all fall in our lives, it’s not like you lied, killed or blasphemed, is it?’
‘Yes it is! I have lied to myself. Murdered my marriage, my blessed union, and broke a promise to my man.’
‘That’s not blasphemy!’
‘It is if he’s your God, and Bruar is my God, you know.’
For all her words of comfort, Mother Foy could see none were easing Megan’s guilt. ‘Maybe another dawn will take the sting out of things,’ she assured her. ‘Now, have you eaten any supper?’
‘Yes, I’ve just eaten a man!’
‘Now listen here, girlie, I’m in no mood for your silly nonsense. This man of yours, a ghost sends you off on a mission to find him, even though the army have informed you he’s dead. He might be waiting for you as we speak, and then he might not. If things are meant then they will be. You don’t have to flog yourself every time you fall.’
‘He is alive—why else should this pain in my heart be so bad?’
‘Because you refuse to let go. I knew a gypsy girl, so inconsolable was she that only death brought relief, she jumped from a cliff. It isn’t hard to understand your hanging onto threads. Let him go. Find Michael, tell him about your missing man, see what he thinks. But like I said, if a path is set you’ll walk on it. Aye, you might get lost every now and then, but you always find it again.’
Megan buried her head into a welcome pillow. Floods of tears later, she sat up. ‘Do you believe my man is dead, and it’s stupid imaginings that I cleave to?’
‘I will not say one way or tither, but so what if you steal a passionate moment? Remember, ’tis a long cruel war to our backs. Do you think other good women haven’t pinched a tiny bite of the cherry? Don’t be so hard on yourself, that’s all I’m saying. Now, when tomorrow comes and you have finished your chores, take a walk up to the farm and speak with him. Tell him the truth and see how he takes it.’
‘Mother Foy, do you know something?’
‘What is that, girlie?’
‘My Bruar breathes! I will find him, and it’s thanks to my wayward ways that I’ll have a lot of confessing to do. As for you, do you know that I love you like a mother?’
‘Well, slip your hand into the back of that cupboard ’bove your head and fetch me whisky, I’ll not take no to you sharing some.’
This was all that was needed, a little tender care, a word of worldly wisdom and a few nips of the cratur. Things seemed crystal clear now. She’d no stomach for strong drink, but after downing those three nips the world had a rosy hue to it. In the morning she’d go off to the stud farm and tell Michael everything, but the night was young and the amber liquor plentiful.
Next morning, as she tried with great difficulty to lift her head from the feather pillow, a thought struck her—why did she have a leaden head and ache like a billy drum?’
‘You’ll be better when food and warm tea fill you.’
‘I feel sick even at the mention of food, and my skull is bursting at the seams as if it’s full of rocks. If it’s all the same with you, I’ll stay here in this warm bed and nurse a cracker of a sore head.’ Like a tired badger she curled up, head to knees beneath the bed covers.
There would be no peace for her, though, and as the thump of Mother Foy’s stick came across her back she screamed, ‘Leave me alone, stupid old woman, can’t you see I’m ill? And it was all your doing.’
‘It’s many a horse I’ve walked to water, but none I’ve forced to drink, so don’t blame me for the wild state of you. Now get up and see to things.’
‘Where is the mercy in your heart? I’m dying here.’
‘So I’ll just slide out of bed and bump me arse with full bladder down the snow-covered steps. Then, if I’m not frozen to death I might manage to relieve meself, is that what you’re telling me to do? Anyhow, have you changed your mind about telling Michael? Talk of the devil, here he comes, I see him from my back window.’
Like a flash Megan was pulling on her skirt and fumbling with buttons, the stones that filled her head ignored. She yanked open a drawer, searching frantically for the hairbrush and thinking, ‘I’ll die for real if he sees the state of me.’
It must have taken her ten seconds to get dressed, put a quick brush through her curls, and open the wagon door.
However, there was no one to be seen. She peeked behind and up the side of the wagon, yet if the old woman had seen him, then he certainly wasn’t there now.
‘Wait a minute...’ the sudden thought that she’d been tricked entered her aching head. She mused, ‘Ha, ha, I can see how that wizent old dame is known as wise—she tricked me. Still, I must say I feel acres better now that I’m up.’
In a while she’d lit a fire and filled the kettle with warm water, and after Mother Foy had taken a wash, she helped her outside to toilet, this time avoiding low-hanging branches from the holly trees.
With breakfast over and the wagon tidied, she decided she would visit Michael and explain her situation. Leaving the old woman comfortable and a kettle on the boil for tea, she set off. Snow had settled, and an icy breeze blew tentacles of mist. ‘This place reminds me of Glen Coe,’ she thought, as the dewy mist found its way down her collar and over her shoulders. She drew them in towards her breastbone. Her fingertips nipped, ‘I could do with a pair of woolly gloves. It’s a small mercy but thanks be for pockets, although this coat is useless,’ she thought. as her cold fingers peeped through holes. ‘I will have to start hawking soon, and see if some benevolent soul will part with a cast-off coat.’
Here and there small fir trees full of rustling under branches lined the road, a low breeze bringing them to life. From side to side she darted her gaze.
Usually walking lonely roads was nothing to her, even the dark seldom ruffled her, but there was an strange feeling of menace that gnawed into her courage. As the way bent through gorse bushes someone moved swiftly across her path. ‘Who’s there?’ she called into the thickening fog. Far off the wind howled like a werewolf lamenting its accursed form. Her steps froze as the body appeared again from the heart of the mist, hovered for a moment, then slipped backwards into the swirl. ‘Is that you Michael? Stephen, is it you?’ Silence followed. Fear grabbed inside her and squeezed her heart. She remembered O’Connor’s tales of sinister beings who practised magic in the boglands of his Irish home.
There was a storm of silence. Her heart beat like thunder. She stood her ground and waited, then no more than ten feet from her stood a figure, cloaked, face hidden under a black hood. It was a phantom; slowly it lifted its hand, pointed and said, ‘Hell comes soon!’
Its croaky voice chilled her to the bone, the hair on her scalp rose. Gathering what scrap of courage remained to her, she called again, ‘Who are you, and why do you follow me, what is it you want?’ Nothing, not even a heartbeat, was heard from the beast. Unlike the beat of jungle drums pumping from her own heart. The thing’s outline was just visible, its outstretched hand, finger pointing.
At that moment her resolve broke and something in her screamed, ‘Go!’ In blind panic she was a child again, running down the hill to escape the evil Green Man. She abandoned the familiar road for snowy grass, which instantly hindered her pace. A rotted fence post didn’t appear until she had fallen over it. Buttons were wrenched from her coat by the fall, the hemline was held by the barbed wire and chunks ripped from the garment. As she attempted to pull herself free, a broken splinter tore into her hand, she screamed in pain. Strength was sapped from her as the terror of the mist made her already vivid imagination hear voices not of this world. But she was a tinker and should have known that the voices were the sounds of a gurgling stream. And as if she’d not endured enough, a rabbit snared by the fence was writhing in its last throes of life; it stiffened and died. Her foot caught under the rodent. As she lay face down, her ears felt the ground vibrate. She knew that sound! There was no mistaking the noise of horses’ rattling hooves galloping nearer.
