Dr Muirhead folded away his newspaper. ‘Sit down, man, and have a dram.’
When he had poured the drinks he sat down in his chair facing his uninvited guest and said, ‘Drink that first, and then tell me the problem. It’s your laddie, I suppose.’
When Euan had finished telling him everything that Robin had said or done since he had been invalided out, he sighed deeply and lay back in his chair, his hands round the crystal tumbler, his eyes watching the fire.
‘I can’t help with mental problems, Euan. I’m way out of my depth here.’
Euan started up. ‘I have to get back to him. I put him to bed. I never did that in my life before and here he is nearly thirty years of age.’
‘Sit down and finish your dram. He’ll sleep. I said I couldn’t help but there are doctors specialising in Psychiatry. There’s a professor in Edinburgh, Rivers, an anthropologist would you believe, but he’s done wonders with some of our wounded lads. I could write to him for you.’
Euan sat up and his face was immediately happier and George Muirhead felt the weight of his calling heavier than he had ever felt it before. This trust: it frightened him sometimes. He couldn’t possibly measure up all the time. He sighed. ‘It’ll take a few weeks, Euan. Finish up your dram and I’ll come back with you and have a look at the boy.’ He heard what he had just said. The boy. Robin Morrison had not been a boy for a long time.
‘Damn, but I’m getting too old for this job,’ he thought but kept his thoughts to himself.
‘Robin was an officer, wasn’t he? That makes it easier. Rivers is in a hospital for officers in Edinburgh. Pity they released Robin from the hospital without letting a psychiatrist have a look at him. Still, doesn’t sound as if he’s a danger to himself or anyone else.’
Euan decided not to mention the contents of the letter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Thank God for the land. As the winter of 1918 passed, Mairi took refuge in making plans for the spring sowing. Sir Humphrey Grey-Watson’s solicitor had assured her that Ian would have no trouble in taking over the tenancy.
Ian was coming home. She had had a letter dated November 1918.
Mairi wondered sadly if the letter might have been written on the very day that Colin had been killed but she tried to put that thought out of her head. What did it matter when it had been written? In late November, Ian was still alive so he would be coming home with all the thousands of other prisoners. It would take time. But Mairi and the land had time. Sometimes she felt that she had nothing else.
Ian’s letter had hinted at changes in his life that he wanted to discuss with his father. She sighed and Milly, who was sewing patches on her sons’ trousers, looked up.
‘It was nice of the laird to send that wee note, Mairi,’ she said in the hope that remembering Sir Humphrey’s kindness might cheer Mairi. ‘And the Dominie, and the Blacks, and the minister. Jings, everybody that’s anybody has been in this house these past weeks.’
But not Robin, thought Mairi, not the only person who mattered. ‘People are like that in the country,’ was all she said.
‘Och, had I been up a stair in Dundee when my man was killed, the neighbours would have been at my door too.’
Milly held the strong thread between her teeth and bit at it until it broke and Mairi got up and went to her sewing box for her scissors.
‘You’ll break your teeth, Milly.’
‘We had teeth afore we had scissors, lassie, but since you’ve got them, I’ll use them.’
They heard the rattling of the old windows as the wind freshened and changed direction.
‘Damn,’ said Mairi as the room filled with smoke blown back down the old chimney piece. ‘I forgot to get the sweep in.’
That had been one of the many jobs attended to by Colin.
The women coughed furiously for a few minutes and then Mairi went to the door and opened it a little. Smoke went out and snow blew in.
‘The smell of wood smoke’s braw though, Mairi,’ laughed Milly as she joined her shivering landlady at the door. ‘Better than some of the stuff we used to burn. Mind you, if the bairns are cold you’ll burn what you have.’ She pulled her old cardigan round her shoulders. ‘Come on, lassie. It’s freezing with that door open.’
Obligingly, Mairi closed the door. ‘The world is so pretty with snow on it.’
‘It’s prettier and warmer without it,’ said the practical Milly as she sat down again beside the fire.
She sewed steadily for a few minutes and then put down her mending. ‘Mairi, can you sew?’
Startled, Mairi looked up. ‘Sew? I’m sorry, Milly, do you need some help? Of course I can sew.’
‘No, it’s not that. I like my hands busy. I was just thinking that your Ian’ll have lost weight in a prison camp. Maybe we should be making him some new shirts, a wee welcome home present.’
‘I haven’t told him . . .’ She still could not say the words: our father is dead.
‘Might as well keep the bad news till he gets home. It’d be different if he was going to be years yet. One day soon he’ll just be here.’ She looked at her employer. ‘Are you hearing what I’m trying to tell you, lassie? I’ve brought this up afore.’
Mairi looked up and there was such an expression of pain on her face that Milly’s heart was touched. ‘There won’t be room for us, lass. He’s the tenant. Even if he didn’t want his dad’s room, he’ll need his own.’
Mairi saw the justice of this. In all probability Ian would prefer not to use the bigger room, unless he brought a bride to the farm. She saw the beautiful Arabella Huntingdon but could not picture the young aristocrat in this farmhouse. Poor Ian.
‘You haven’t started to look for somewhere, Milly? The children are happy here at the school, in the village. Ian won’t want you to leave. We’ll think of something. I can’t bear for you to go. I would even miss Bert.’
They laughed. Bert was what was commonly known as a holy terror.
‘He misses Jim but the Dominie’s got the measure of him,’ said Milly and then, more quietly, ‘I’ll have to go, Mairi. I can maybe get a job in the mills.’
Mairi stood up. ‘But not yet, not yet. Have the winter here at least.’
And so they left it although Mairi stayed awake for some time worrying. If she worried about Milly and her children it left less room to worry about Mairi McGloughlin. When she worried about herself and her future, her heart bled for Robin, Robin who had kissed her so sweetly and had talked of a future full of roses, but who had come back from the war and avoided her at every turn, who had not even come to say he was sorry that her father had been killed.
What had happened to him? What had happened to his love for her? For she knew that he did not love lightly. He had meant what he had said. What had she done to make him change his mind, because she must have done something.
A few days later, Milly went to fetch the children from the school and Mairi found herself alone in the house. It was pleasant to sit and listen to the sounds that she had not heard since those three delightful but noisy children had come to stay: the tick-tock of the old clock on the mantel, the spitting of wet wood in the fire, the snores of the dogs as they lay at her feet.
This is nice, thought Mairi. I’d forgotten how comforting clocks and dogs are.
She heard the sounds of someone approaching the door and looked up at the clock, surprised that Milly was home so quickly. She had thought she might walk into the town, small as it was. Milly liked the country but she missed the bustle of Dundee.
Mairi got up and opened the door and Robin’s father stood there. ‘Twice I’ve tried to come and tell you, lass,’ he said.
Her heart almost stopped beating. Tell her what? Robin. Something dreadful had happened to Robin. That was it; of course that was it. He had not come to see her because, because . . . No, no, hold on, Mairi, hold on. You would have known, had he been dead.
‘Come in and sit down by the fire,’ she said when she could speak. ‘
Tell me what, Dominie? Is something wrong with Robin?’
He looked at her and away again and it was shame and embarrassment that were in his face as well as grief. Then he faced her again.
‘I won’t dress the miserable truth in pretty clothes, Mairi. My boy is in a lunatic asylum. He’s had another breakdown, a complete one this time. Thank God I spoke to Dr Muirhead.’
Mairi wasn’t really taking in the words lunatic and asylum. She had expected to hear that final word, dead, and so her heart was slowing down and she was even conscious of relief.
‘A lunatic asylum? Where?’
‘He’s been admitted to a hospital in Edinburgh.’
Edinburgh. It could have been a million miles away. How could she get to Edinburgh? No matter. She would get there. A lunatic asylum. What was that? A hiding place for the mad. Robin was mad. No, not Robin. But what was madness?
‘Can I see him?’ Desperately she prayed that she could deal with madness, with insanity. What was it? Perhaps if Robin had asked to see her . . . She remembered once falling in the mill pool. Her frock had bloomed like a giant flower up over her head and she had fought, kicking to reach the surface, to breathe. She felt the same now. Then Ian and Robin, yes, Robin had pulled her from the pond, swept the weeds from her dress and begged her not to tell her father. Robin needed her.
‘May I see him?’ she asked again.
The Dominie looked surprised. ‘You wouldn’t want to see him where he is. I hated leaving him there.’
And Mairi began to hear what he was saying. ‘Robin is mentally ill. That’s what you’re saying, Dominie.’
His face crumpled as if he was going to cry. ‘Such a fine mind, a fine mind.’
Mairi McGloughlin had never been ill a day in her life. She had no experience of illness, having been so young when her mother had died and she knew nothing whatsoever about illnesses of the mind. But illness was illness. Some you could see and bandage up and some you could not. It was as simple as that and if it was not, then wishing and praying should make it so.
‘He’ll get better,’ she said fiercely and the Dominie looked at her, startled by the note of determination in her voice. ‘Of course he’ll get better. When may I see him?’
He sighed and handed his burden over to younger, stronger shoulders. ‘Not yet, my dear. It’s too early. He’s . . . well, they give him something to keep him quiet.’ He leaned over and gripped her hand and it was the first time that he had ever touched her. ‘I think he’s afraid.’
The Dominie was an old man. Not in years; surely he could only be a few years older than Colin. But he looked old, old and frail.
Afraid? Robin afraid? Never ever. Ian sometimes, but never Robin. His father was afraid too but this fear could be handled.
‘Stay and have some soup with me, Mr Morrison, with me and Milly when she gets back. You remember Mrs Baxter?’
‘Of course, my dear. I’ll be glad to stay a while, Mairi.’
Mairi did not go to the kitchen to see to her soup. Instead she sat down beside Robin’s father. This conversation was vitally important. She had to understand everything.
‘Dominie, Robin’s fear. Is he afraid of me? Afraid that I might hold him to promises? I won’t. I thought I had made that clear when he first came home. I’m here to be his friend, if he wants that.’
The Dominie thought of the letter that he had sent, so rashly to Ian, and he thanked God that it had never arrived. Robin was afraid that he would kill someone very dear to him. He had been alone for months with his father and had shown no violence whatsoever, so the someone dear had to be someone else. He had always known that Mairi was very special to his son and he knew too that Robin had been desperately afraid ever to be alone with her.
‘We don’t know much about the way the mind works, Mairi, why one man’s mind can take all the blows it’s dealt and another man is destroyed by the same blows. I think every soldier has been changed by the war and even a few for the better but the change in Robin . . .’ The father sat back and stared at the ceiling. ‘He can’t cope. He tried to do it all on his own, refusing to believe he was ill, then he did ask for help but he never got it, and now, now he is in the only place where they have some idea of what to do to help him. I don’t know if he will ever get better. He wouldn’t expect you to wait, Mairi.’
Mince or steak? Steak or mince? There was no choice.
‘If he loves me, Mr Morrison, it would never occur to me not to wait. I’ve waited so long already.’
‘Do you understand what I am telling you? We know so little about mental illness.’
He slumped in the chair and she saw how hard that admission had been for him. Robin had been wounded twice in the war and his father had told of his injuries proudly. Honourable scars. But wounds to the mind, to the soul, wounds that could not be bandaged, were these not also honourable?
‘He’ll get better, Dominie,’ she said again. ‘You and I have to believe that and then Robin will believe too.’
‘Mairi, you are still so young, so pretty . . .’
He was letting her go. He was casting her off. She could forget the gentle moments, the hope of a lifetime full of roses. Only one thing mattered. If Robin had asked him to set her free . . . She steeled herself to ask the question that would change the whole course of her life. ‘Did Robin ask you to tell me that?’
He shook his head. ‘He says nothing at all, nothing. He sits in a chair and looks at the wall or out of a window if the nurse has the chair turned that way.’
‘He’ll get better,’ Mairi said again and she smiled at Robin’s father. ‘I’ll fetch us some soup.’
Milly and the children came in from the village just as Mairi was ladling the soup into the bowls.
‘Good,’ Mairi called. ‘You’re just in time for supper. Wash your hands, Bert, and bring the scullery chairs to the table.’
‘We cannot eat with the Dominie, Mairi,’ hissed Milly. ‘The bairns’ll die of fright.’
‘In here he’s just a man with a son in hospital, Milly. The children will be good for him. You can talk to him about Angus staying on at the school.’
But instead Milly talked about returning to Dundee and Mr Morrison bravely set his own problem aside and applied himself to worrying about hers.
‘I would suggest waiting until Ian comes home, Mrs Baxter. Come along, wee Jean, drink up your good soup while it’s hot.’ He waited to see that the girl was being obedient and turned back to her mother. ‘You certainly don’t want to start looking for a job and a home in the middle of winter. And have you thought of getting a cottage near here? Surely there are empty cottages on the estate, Mairi?’
‘It’s the rent, Dominie. Mairi’ll not need me when her brother comes home.’
Mairi took the big knife and started slicing some of her own bread. ‘Ian said he has things to discuss with . . . Dad. Maybe he’ll talk them over with me, but I don’t think you should do anything, Milly, until we see what happens.’
‘Are we going to stay here then?’ asked Bert and Jean, and Mairi looked at Angus and saw that the answer meant a great deal to him.
‘Yes,’ said Mairi. ‘We’ll work something out.’
And only Mr Morrison knew that she was thinking about Robin.
*
She wrote to him that night when Mr Morrison had walked home and Milly and her children were all in bed. She did not refer to his illness, told him only about her work on the farm and then she added something about the antics of Bert. Robin, too, had been a schoolmaster. He would have met boys like Bert.
Mairi did not know that, in his camp in Germany, Ian was writing to his friend. Mr Morrison’s desperate appeal for help had just reached him and Ian had set aside the daily letter he was writing to Arabella to communicate with his old friend. He did not mention that Robin had been unable to finish the letter; he did not say that he assumed that it was Robin’s desperate father who had sent it. He told him how his company of conscientious
objectors had been captured by a German patrol. He did not tell Robin of the inhuman brutality meted out by men who should have known better but he did tell him of the humanity of others. And he told Robin what he had told no one else. He wrote of his love for Arabella.
Her love has kept me sane, Robin. No matter what happened, I would conjure up a picture of Bella, and I would challenge fate to throw at me whatever it would. I managed, somehow, to keep the scarf she gave me. It would have been so difficult to believe that she and her love were real had I had nothing. Letters go missing and sometimes they were so late that I would convince myself that she had stopped loving me. Why would a girl like that love a wreck like me? But she does, Robin, she does. Why I don’t know, but I will treasure her love and her faith in me every day of my life.
In battle, Robin, my dear friend, you did what you had to do and the girl you love – and I know it’s my wee sister – will help you live with what you have had to do. You couldn’t hurt her, Robin, not physically; it’s not in you. And I think you’re afraid that you are killing her love, not her, Robin, her love. But she’s strong, Robin, and she’s faithful, and she guards those she loves. Remember how we used to laugh at her, the cocky wee bantam, standing up for me that could lift her up with one hand. She’ll lift you, Robin, as Bella lifts me. What did we do to deserve such women? Don’t question, old friend, accept, and be grateful. You, as you are, as you were, as you will be, are the man to whom she has given her heart. Take it and treat it gently.
Robin received that letter on a warm summer’s day in 1919. His father, looking better than he had looked for some time, Robin noted, had brought him the letter with a pot of Mairi’s strawberry jam.
The Dominie was nervous. He prayed the letter was not an answer to the one Robin had written, but Robin took the letter and the jam and he read the letter without speaking.
‘Ian’s got a girl,’ he said, when he had finished reading. ‘Someone called Bella. I don’t remember a Bella anywhere in the village.’
‘Perhaps it’s someone he met in one of the camps, a nurse or such like.’
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