by A. J. Cronin
When newcomers to the town remark how Mrs Grant spoils her clever son, Finlay holds his peace. Even when Cameron broaches the subject Finlay will take no credit, but with an inscrutable smile remarks that they owe the miracle to Lestrange.
The Wild Rasp Jam
Every year, when the fruit ripens, and the good earth yields its bounty, bringing douce housewives to their jam-making, Finlay receives unfailingly a fine big pot of raspberry jam from Tannochbrae, the snug little village on the lochside beyond Markles.
Many presents came to Finlay from the lochside folk, for they loved him, and he them; indeed, he always maintained this part of his practice to be by far the dearest to him. Yes, many a thing he had, from a goose, or a cheese maybe, or a salmon, or, in season, a brace of grouse. And in particular many a thing he had from Tannochbrae. But they were gifts solely of kindness and affection. They had not the spiritual significance, nor, for that matter, the strangely human story which lay behind that simple pot of jam.
And here, if you like, is the story itself.
Nessie Sutherland was the belle of Tannochbrae, a young spirited lass who, though poor, and often poorly dressed, was so bonny and blithe that her lovely hazel eyes played havoc amongst the young men of the lochside.
She was a sweet lass, right enough, maybe a trifle wilful in her ways, too sure of her power to fascinate, her head a little turned by the attention she received, but at heart unspoiled and innocent as the meadow queen that grew so freshly in the glens of Tannochbrae.
Nessie, though not yet turned twenty, had suitors galore, but amongst the crowd of them in the race for her favour and affection, one seemed to stand far ahead of all the rest. He was Hugh Riach, dashing, black-haired Hughie, six foot in his stocking soles, and broad in proportion, with a fine handsome head, a roving eye, and always the ready word, both glib and hearty, with which to greet the world.
Oh, he was a grand lad, everyone agreed, a man who could take his dram and hold it, fine company, a rogueish lad with many conquests, it was slyly rumoured, to his credit.
And there was more to Hughie than that! Beside the looks and his loud-voiced gallantry, he was heir to Tannochbrae Farm, which gave him a real advantage, especially in the eyes of Nessie’s mother, who, shifty and needy, kept dinning in her daughter’s ears the benefit of gear and siller to a tocherless lass.
That made little difference, however, though ’twas helpful in its way, for Nessie was swept off her feet by the dashing Hughie, and Hughie for once was equally swept away by her.
Out fishing in the loch that July day with his great friend Peter Donald, he boasted openly of his high intentions.
‘I’m mad about her, Peter,’ he declared in his ranting style. ‘I’ll no’ be happy till I have her. She’s fair bewitched me. Man, ye’d hardly credit it, but I’ve got to be that set on Nessie, even the thought of the show and winning the cup with Heather Pride means nothing at all beside it. I tell ye, Peter, I’ll never rest till Nessie’s mine.’
Peter Donald was silent, reflecting, maybe, how great Hughie’s love must be to divert his attention from the tearing ambition which had consumed him for the last twelve months, namely to win the challenge cup at the County Show with his prize bull, Heather Pride. At length he muttered—
‘Maybe I do understand, Hughie. I’ve always thought well of Nessie myself.’
Peter was like that, always moderate in his speech, a silent and rather uncommunicative chap who was studying for the ministry, with hopes ultimately of getting the manse at Tannochbrae. He had none of Hughie’s good looks; his face was long and serious, and his brown eyes were not dashing, but sympathetic and kindly. Yet, though he was shy and afraid of women and immersed in his books, he was far from being a bookworm.
Peter knew the woods and the birds and the beasts therein. He was the best fisher out of Tannochbrae, and for all his back was bowed by study his biceps were big, and he could toss a caber further than any man in the village.
At this moment Peter seemed to struggle with himself, as though he wanted to pursue the conversation further, but something, perhaps his shyness, restrained him. And then, all at once, he hooked a salmon, and the opportunity was lost in the stir of playing and gaffing the fish. But though the matter was dropped between Hughie and Peter, Hughie continued loudly to proclaim his passion that night in the Tannochbrae Arms.
Thumping the table with his fist, with a few drinks to give him pith, he roared—
‘There’s two things I’m going to do in the next few weeks. I’m going to win the cup with Heather Pride, and I’m going to have Nessie Sutherland for my bonnie bride.’
A silence of apprehension.
‘That’s poetry,’ continued Hughie, leering round half drunk, ‘the best lines of poetry that was ever wrote.’
Hughie’s poetry, or at least the sentiment, was not long in going the round of the village, and reached the humble home where lived Mrs Sutherland and Nessie.
The old woman was in high good humour, and Nessie herself not displeased at such evident admiration on the part of her handsome suitor.
They sat outside the cottage in the warm dusk, discussing Hughie, enumerating his fine points, when Peter Donald strode along with the salmon he had caught that day.
‘I thought maybe you’d care to have this, Mrs Sutherland,’ he remarked unobtrusively. ‘We have another at home, and we’re not minding so much for it.’
His bashful way of presenting the gift made Nessie titter, and she thought how gallantly Hughie would have cried – ‘Here’s a braw salmon for ye, Nessie, lass, I caught it specially for yourself.’
Nessie was well aware of Peter’s dumb admiration for her, which had existed since their schooldays together. It flattered her vanity, though, of course, there was small chance for Peter with such a dashing gallant as Hughie in the field.
Such was the general opinion of the village and the district, but there were those who, viewing both men, wished it were otherwise. And amongst them was our hero, Finlay.
Finlay knew more, perhaps, of Hughie Riach than most, and of his doings beyond the quiet confines of Tannochbrae – gay adventures in Levenford, for instance, of a Saturday night. And Finlay was far from sharing the general opinion of Hughie’s worth.
Late one afternoon in the following week, driving out on his daily visit to Tannochbrae, Finlay took a short cut by the lane through Tannochbrae woods, and there, quite suddenly he came on Hughie and Nessie idling close together on the grassy pathway which lay between the lane and the woods.
In one hand Nessie carried a basket filled with wild raspberries which she had been gathering, and Hughie’s arm was tight round her waist.
Something in the sight of those two wandering so close together in this unfrequented spot made Finlay frown, though it ought to have been an idyllic vision.
On a sudden impulse he drew up his horse and declared, with a pretence of jocularity—
‘Why aren’t you at your work, Hughie, man, instead of hanging about in the woods at this time of the day?’
Hughie’s face clouded, and he said sullenly—
‘That’s my business.’
Unperturbed, Finlay went on, in the same light tone—
‘And you, Nessie. You ought to be home at your jam-making. You know as well as I do that the berries ought to be sugared the minute they’re picked or the jam isn’t so good.’
Nessie looked up, her face flushed, her hair disarranged, too startled and confused to speak. It was Hughie who got ready another rude reply, but before it came Finlay made a gesture of invitation with the reins.
‘Step up, Nessie,’ he nodded. ‘I’m driving past your mother’s house. I’ll drop you there. Come along now; you can’t refuse a lift!’
Abashed and unable to refuse the invitation from such an august source, Nessie complied, and climbed up into the gig beside Finlay, who, with a curt nod to Hughie, drove off.
Finlay drove Nessie back to Tannochbrae slowly. At first he kept silent, s
urprised at his own action. But there was that in Nessie’s eyes and in her shamed submission which told him how timely had been his interference.
Gradually the strain eased, and Finlay casually drew the conversation round to Peter Donald, remarking to Nessie what a fine fellow he was, how quiet and unassuming and kindly, and, above all, how fond of her. But Nessie, now a little angered at having been coerced into leaving Hughie, tossed her head petulantly.
‘Peter’s just a feared thing,’ she said. ‘If he’s fond of me, why hasn’t he got the courage to say so? I like a man that’s got some spunk in him.’
Finlay sighed and dropped the conversation completely, thinking, as many a man had done before him, that no words of his could alter the case, that a wilful woman must have her way.
Time passed, and the day of the County Show drew near. The show, which took place at Levenford, was, of course, a great and eagerly awaited event, and this year more than ever the folks at Tannochbrae were keyed up to a high pitch of expectancy. They wanted Hughie’s Heather Pride to win the Challenge Cup. Hughie himself seemed to have no question in his mind but that he would lift the prize. His boasting left no room for doubt.
Two days before the show, in a lordly fashion, he invited Nessie and his friend, Peter, to see his prize animal. It was sheer vanity on his part – the desire to impress Nessie with a sense of his possessions, for the humiliation he had received through Finlay still rankled; and bedsides, he had perhaps some inkling of Peter’s feeling for Nessie, and, in his high-handed fashion, was determined to check such presumption once and for all.
It was a fine, warm afternoon when Nessie and Peter arrived at the farm, and Hughie led them straight away to the yard, where, in his arrogant fashion, he nodded to Dougal, the farm lad, to bring out the bull.
‘There!’ he remarked loudly to Peter, though his remarks were plainly for Nessie. ‘Take a look at that, if you please, and tell me if it suits you.’
Peter and Nessie looked at the bull which Dougal had brought out from the darkness of the stall. It was a superb animal, jet black in colour, young, virile, indomitably alive. In the sunshine its black hide glistened, while the muscles of its neck bunched in a powerful hump, and its eye, shot with strange lights, rolled towards Hughie – sullen, unfathomable. Something latent in that eye seemed to fan the blustering bravado of Hughie’s mood.
‘Hup, man, hup!’ he cried irritably. ‘Don’t look at me so dour. Ye’ll never win the cup with that red eye. Hup, hup!’
And he twitched the steel chain attached to the beast’s nose-ring until the beautiful animal arched its back angrily.
‘Ye see,’ Hughie remarked with a grin, ‘it knows its master, the brute. And a noble brute it is. Hup, hup!’
Domineeringly he laid his big hand on the bull’s pale pink nostrils, as though to show his power, his mastery. But at that moment the bull violently twitched its head and tore the chain out of Hughie’s hands.
It broke loose into the yard and drew up, with its back arched and its forelegs together, stiff. Its hide, tense and living, glistened black against the whitewashed walls that enclosed the yard. The white glare of those walls hurt its eyes. This hot, yellow sand, strewn upon the square, was strangely irritating after the soothing darkness of its stall. Its eyes were fixed on Hughie with a kind of latent animosity.
Hughie started, nonplussed that the bull should have broken loose, forgetful of Nessie and Peter beside him, as they stood cornered in the angle between the byre and bull’s stall. He took a step forward, surprised, cautious.
‘Here,’ he cried to the bull, ‘here, man, here!’
But the bull made no response; it stood quite still, impassive, as if carved in ebony.
Hughie took another step forward, half-blustering, half-cajoling.
‘What are ye doin’, man? Here, man, here!’
By way of answer the bull made a run at Hughie, not a furious run, but a slow, rather considering run. Hughie jumped aside and swore as the beast barged heavily past him.
Springing forward, he tried to grip the bull’s neck with both arms, bearing all its weight on his side, trying to steer it towards the open door of its stall. But the bull dragged him a few paces, shook him off easily, impatiently. Then, as he fell, it butted and nosed him about the back.
Hughie felt the horns rake the soft gravel beneath him as he rolled over on his side. He sprang to his feet again, bruised and shaken.
‘Damn ye!’ he cried. ‘Damn ye!’
At which the bull, turning on its forefeet, very sharp and sudden, ripped its right horn through Hughie’s shirt.
Swearing loudly, with his face suddenly alarmed, Hughie backed towards the shelter of the farm buildings, directly opposite the corner where Peter and Nessie stood. His torn shirt billowed off his shoulders like a cloak. He kept muttering, ‘Ye would, would ye? Ye’d horn me, you brute! I’ll learn ye – I’ll learn ye something.’
But, alas! as the bull rushed towards him again Hughie’s pretence of courage left him. He wavered, turned, and, seeing the kitchen door open behind him, he bolted as hard as his heels would carry him into the house.
At the sight of Hughie running away Nessie’s heart constricted.
Stunned, she could not credit it – Hughie showing such arrant cowardice! But she had little time to reflect, for at the same moment the bull swung, and, baulked in its rush at Hughie, lowered its head, then launched itself straight at the spot where she and Peter stood.
It was a savage, tearing rush, which, half-stupefied as she was, might well have proved the end of Nessie. But Peter acted quicker than a flash.
Pushing her violently to one side, while he leapt to the other, he saved them both. Nessie could feel the swish of the horn as it went past her side, and she saw Peter fall with the quickness of his own leap.
Peter jumped up again. His face was pale; not pale with terror, but pale with a hard, cold determination. He realised that Nessie and he, trapped by the angle of the walls, were in a desperate position.
Looking around swiftly, he caught hold of a rusty sickle which lay beside the water-butt. It was a feeble weapon, but he gripped the handle of the old hook till the white cords stood out on his hand. His jaw was set like a rock, his eyes were wide, staringly alert.
The bull, now thoroughly infuriated, came at him again, head down, back muscles humped. Peter held his ground to the last fraction of a second, knowing that the bull would strike to the right. Then, before he jumped, he smashed the back of the hook on the beast’s neck.
It was a felling stroke, but it had little effect upon the bull, which turned short on its own momentum, and then, stopping, tore into Peter. Again and again Peter struck it with the heavy hook before he flung himself away to safety.
The bull paused at a distance of twenty feet, breathing heavily, eyeing the man sideways with one small, wicked eye.
Nessie, in an agony of terror, could see its nostrils widening. Then slowly, dangerously, it moved. No rush, but a slow sidle towards Peter, edging him back into the wall at the corner of the yard where Nessie stood penned in.
Peter backed a few yards, saw his mistake, saw that Nessie was in danger. At that instant the bull charged again. As the bull came in Peter did not move, but, crouching directly in front of Nessie, he took the full impact of the animal’s rush. The bull’s rush. The bull’s horn buried itself in Peter’s side.
Nessie screamed, as, clasping the beast’s free horn with both hands, his face distorted, anguished, Peter wrenched himself away from the horn which impaled him, then slid down the bull’s shoulders to his knees, while the blood came in quick spurts from his torn side.
Tossing its head in triumph, the bull again made to rush at Nessie, but Peter, swaying on his legs, his hands empty of any weapon, got up again to face the bull.
Full of fight and confidence, the bull bored in. Peter never moved. His head hung down, but his jaw was still grimly clenched.
As the bull charged he shut his fist and smashed it wit
h all his force full in the brute’s soft muzzle. The blow nearly broke his wrist, but the shock of it stopped the bull, which paused as though surprised. And in the same moment intervention came from the other end of the yard.
Dougal and Matt, the ploughman, attracted by Nessie’s screams, raced into the yard, waving their arms to take the bull’s attention, Matt was brandishing a heavy sledge, and as the bull came in on its next rush he planted his feet wide apart, whirled the sledge high in the air, and smashed it fair in the centre of the beast’s brow.
The crack of the impact came clear and hard as a gunshot. The bull halted suddenly. All its venom seemed to wither into the air. Then, stunned, first one knee and then another buckled under it; it sloped over on its side, and finally collapsed.
Swaying on his feet, Peter looked stupidly at the fallen bull. Then he glanced at Nessie.
His face streaked with blood and dust, was filled with a great tenderness. He tried to lift his hand to wipe his lips, but he could not. Then he fell heavily across the body of the bull.
An hour later Finlay drove like a madman up to Tannochbrae. Ignoring the stir that his arrival caused, he made straight into the kitchen, where, on the horse-hair sofa, Peter lay stretched. Bending down amidst a dead silence, Finlay began to minister to the injured man. Beside him, holding some whisky in a tumbler, spilling half of it with a shaky hand, Hughie groaned—
‘My God! He’s all right, isn’t he?’
Finlay rose slowly, his face dark and unfriendly.
‘Yes, he’s all right. It’s only the muscle that’s been torn. He’ll be right again in three or four weeks.’
‘Thank God!’ cried Hughie again, and he tried to put his arm round Nessie, but Nessie broke away from him with a cold, pale look.
Hughie’s lips began to quiver again. He glanced round the assembled company in a kind of desperate entreaty. But every eye avoided his. Then Hughie groaned again and stumbled into a seat, cowering and twitching like a man who has been in cold water too long.
A moment later he broke down completely. Blubbering, he whispered, ‘Oh, God in heaven, I dinna ken what came over me.’
