A Pinch of Salt

by Eileen Ramsay

  What an expressive face Kate had. Marriage for herself had obviously never occurred to her.

  ‘I’d better away home, Mrs Murphy. A miner needs more nourishment than a school wean.’ On the way home she wished she hadn’t said that. How superior she sounded to herself sometimes, so how she must sound to other people she dreaded to think. I just don’t know what to say sometimes, thought Kate sadly, all the wrong words come out.

  No more was said about the rights and wrongs of fourteen-year-old boys going into mines and Pat himself was thrilled when the great day dawned. For the first time in his life he was awake before Kate and she came downstairs to find him, proud as punch, admiring himself in the first new clothes he had owned since his first Holy Communion suit four years before.

  ‘You’d best sit down and have your porridge,’ she said gruffly to hide the fear and dismay that the sight of her little brother pretending to be a grown man instilled in her.

  Liam wondered why his eldest daughter, with a furious face, was savagely beating the already well-stirred porridge.

  Patrick had to be forced to finish his breakfast so anxious was he to throw off his childhood and go down into the bowels of the earth. Today he would become a man; what did he want with porridge – but his father agreed with his sister and he was forced to swallow every tasteless morsel. At last, however, it was time to go, and he picked up his tin with his butty and, shoulders straight, accompanied his father up the road to the mine trying to look nonchalant. Kate watched them leave and another part of her youth went with them; Patrick would never be the same again. There were the others though.

  ‘Our Deirdre, Kevin, Colm, get up all of you and get to school.’

  School. School was the last thing any of them wanted to think about. Kevin, eleven months younger than Patrick, resented the months that kept him out of the pit, and his twin, Deirdre, spent all her time admiring her very pretty face in the tiny shaving mirror in the kitchen. She hated school but liked to go to see the effect that sidelong glances out of her large green eyes had on the boys.

  ‘Lucky bugger, our Pat,’ said Kevin through his porridge and got a clout on the head for his language.

  ‘What’s lucky about spending a day like this grovelling like a mole? Now hurry up and do your work so’s I can get some blankets washed and hung out.’

  *

  Kate stretched luxuriously and smiled at her clothes line with satisfaction. If there were cleaner blankets in Dumfriesshire, she would eat these. It had been a glorious June morning and so she had rushed to the palliative of hard physical work to forget Patrick and what she saw as her first failure in the promises she had made on her mother’s grave.

  ‘I’ll take care of them for you, Mammy.’

  She lost herself in washing their thin, worn blankets in the old tin bath. Getting the sodden blankets through the wringer had been a real challenge. They had soaked her skirt, her shoes, the ground – and she had congratulated herself on her forethought in hauling the old tub outside – but at last there they were, washed, rinsed and wrung, and now flapping in the pure, clear spring breeze. With luck, the weather would hold and she would get them back on the beds tonight. Again she stretched, feeling the tension leave her shoulders and the base of her spine where there always seemed to be a dull ache. It was good to stand straight and tall and feel the warm kiss of the sun.

  Four-year-old Bridie, recuperating from measles, was also enjoying the sun. She had been in bed for over a week and Kate was delighted to take advantage of the healing properties of the sun. Suddenly Kate had a wild idea; she ran into the kitchen and to her relief the old wag-at-the-wall assured her that it was not even eleven o’clock. She would have a holiday. She would have to take little Bridie of course, but she would forget Patrick and the housework and escape to the woods. There would be primroses up the Baker’s Burn; soft, clean pale lemon primroses and, if they were very lucky, some pink and even red ones. She would pick some and bring them back. Unfortunately there were no vases in the house that would show them off to their best advantage; they would be too small for Mam’s blue bowl. A jam-jar would have to do; whatever they were in they would still be spring’s loveliest gift. She would bring some for Mrs Murphy as well, as she hadn’t really talked to her since the row over Patrick

  ‘Bridie, love, we’re away to see Mrs Murphy,’ she called to the little girl who was solemnly digging in a tiny patch of dirt.

  Without thinking, Kate hauled up her still-damp skirt and jumped, as she had done a thousand times before, over the fence between the gardens.

  ‘And very nice too.’ The voice was so unexpected that Kate stood stockstill for a moment, her skirts still kirtled up around her legs. Then, flustered, she dropped them in confusion and desperately tried to find something to say. A young man was standing laughing at her, a young man with black, curly hair and eyes so blue that they were almost purple.

  ‘Mrs Murphy,’ she stammered.

  ‘My Auntie Molly, I’m Charlie Inglis. She must have told you I was coming for she has certainly told me all about you.’

  Kate had decided that this cocksure young man reminded her of a proud little bantam rooster. He was rocking back on his heels looking at her and he was still laughing and she meant to be angry but there was something in his eyes; no one had ever looked at her like that before and she found herself blushing again even though her limbs were now decently covered. She felt breathless, there was a tightness in her chest and a funny feeling ‘there’ – a pleasant feeling – she had never felt one like it before. Heavens, she was still standing like a daft gowk looking into his eyes. That he was smiling into hers was neither here nor there.

  ‘Well, she has never mentioned you, Mr Inglis. If you’ll just tell her, och, never mind.’

  ‘Did I embarrass you then, telling you that your legs were presentable. Gracious, there you go blushing like a beet again. What a sheltered life you must have lived. My auntie was telling me . . .’

  ‘Kate, was you wanting to see me?’ Mrs Murphy came hurrying out of the back door. ‘I see you’ve met my nephew, Charlie. He’s come down from Glasgow to give me a hand.’

  ‘That’s nice, Mrs Murphy,’ smiled Kate as she backed away towards the fence. ‘I’m away with Bridie for a wee while. I was going to bring you some primroses.’

  ‘Lovely, can you get me a root, Kate? They’re grand for spreading. Will Charlie not come with you to dig?’ she added, almost coyly. Kate was over the fence again, more modestly this time. ‘No thanks, the bairn’s so weak we’ll need to go awfie slow. He’d be bored to tears.’

  Kate grabbed wee Bridie by the hand and bore the unprotesting child into the house.

  ‘Well, what do you think of Mr Charles Inglis, Bridie? Fancies himself. The lassies in Glasgow must have spoiled him, wee bantam that he is. We like our men big, don’t we, love – and modest.’

  Despite her brave words, Kate was a trifle disappointed not to find Charlie waiting for her in the street. She had changed out of her wet frock and had put on her summer Sunday one, ‘Just because it’s such a nice day, Bridie’ but there was no one on the road to appreciate it. Kate soon forgot Charlie and the odd effect he had had on her in the sheer joy of being away from the miners’ row. It was wonderful to play truant, to feel the sun on her face and the little girl’s hand in hers. A train was approaching the bridge on the road that led to the Baker’s Burn and she hauled up her skirts like a child and ran to reach the tunnel to feel the roar and the power of the train above her.

  ‘What do you like better, Bridie love; to be under the bridge when the train goes over so you get all scared and excited, or to stay on the road and wave to all the people on the train?’

  ‘Both,’ said Bridie.

  ‘Aye, me too. Once a lady waved back at me, Bridie, a rich lady with gloves and a hat. When you grow up, Miss Bridget, you shall always have gloves and a hat.’

  ‘You too, Katie.’

  ‘Aye, me too.’ They walked on, hand in han
d, and Kate felt immeasurably rich. Her hands were rough and she had never owned a pair of gloves but the same sun shone on her and the gloved woman on the train and the woods and the primroses were hers alone.

  There were thousands of them, soft and so sweet, and their perfume was the essence of spring. Kate buried her face in a bunch she found hidden among the roots of a massive beech tree. There was nothing in the world but the sweet, damp smell of the woods and the pale lemon and pink primroses. She would take the pink back for Mrs Murphy, but for herself, she would take yellow.

  ‘Bridie, let’s take some for Mam’s grave. Mrs Murphy says they spread and so every year, even if you and me leave Auchenbeath she’ll have flowers. She liked daffodils best, did you know that?’

  But, of course, Bridie knew nothing of her mother’s likes and dislikes. Kate was the only mother she knew; Kate was wonderful and, for Bridie, she always would be. The earth gave up the clumps of primroses without too much of a struggle. In 1911, in the woods around Auchenbeath, or any other little village, there were thousands of the sweet little flowers spreading their fragrant carpets, often unseen or unappreciated. Kate could not conceive of a world where primroses were an endangered species or where it was an offence to pick them.

  How long had their truancy lasted? Kate had no way of knowing. She stood up and brushed the earth from her skirts, her Sunday frock, and that made her think of Mister Charlie Inglis again. Cheeky wee blighter. It was all his fault that she was up the Baker’s Burn getting her Sunday-best frock dirty.

  ‘Come on, Bridie, the hooter for lousing time will probably go any minute and what will we tell our dad and our Pat when they arrive hame and see no tea on the table?’

  Kate gave her free hand to her wee sister and hurried back to the village. From the rise above the Kirkland wood they stopped for a moment on their helter-skelter flight and surveyed the ugly little village. Kate had never considered its beauty or ugliness before but today all her senses were finely honed and she saw Auchenbeath for what it was – an accident that had happened on an old post road. The former toll house was the only claim to beauty it possessed, unless one counted the two rather fine kirks that glared balefully at each other from opposing sides of the road. At one end of the village stood two quite grand houses although both hid themselves away behind age-old trees. One, for some obscure reason, was the headmaster’s house and the other belonged to Dr Hyslop. The village proper consisted of some shops and a few rows of ugly little grey houses. As the Victorian mansions dominated one end of the village, the other end was subdued by the slag heap, that ugly evidence of the men toiling like moles beneath the surface of the earth.

  I wonder if primroses could be made to grow over that ugly old bugger, Kate thought aloud, but Bridie could see neither beauty nor ugliness in a mountainous pyramid of slag. It was just there.

  ‘Come on, Bridie,’ Kate shrieked in alarm as the three o’clock hooter sounded, announcing to the world that was Auchenbeath that the men of the village would soon be on their way home, needing hot food and hot water in whichever order they chose. The girls hurried along, back under the railway bridge – no time to think of waving to passing trains – and reached the main street just in time to join the exhausted crocodile of miners who spilled out of the pit.

  Liam saw them, their black hair bedraggled, their eyes shining and their usually pale cheeks sunkissed, and his heart turned over. Dear God, what a beauty that child is, and then, as he noticed the bosom straining at the seams of the best Sunday dress, he realized with a shock that Kate was child no longer but woman – and the spittin’ image of her mammy when he wed her.

  ‘Hello, lassies, been after primroses?’ was all he said.

  ‘For Mam’s grave, Da, and for Mrs Murphy.’

  ‘That’s nice. Better take them now sin’ you’re so near the kirkyard and I’ll take the bairn hame. Our Pat is walking with some of his pals. He’ll be a while.’

  Kate looked after him for a full minute as he walked on down the road, wee Bridie skipping and jumping beside him. She was alone, completely and utterly alone for the first time since the death of her mother. She had an impulse to run, to shout, to do. . . . what, she had no idea. She was filled with exhilaration. Oh, she loved Da and all the bairns, especially wee Bridie, but just for once, for a wee while, no sticky little hand was clutching her, no fretful voice was calling, Kate, Kate, do this for me, Katie, do that for me, Katie. She turned and hurried out of the village, past the schoolmaster’s house, past the manse and up the Great North Road to the churchyard where Auchenbeath laid its dead regardless of religious persuasion.

  There was still time before the school bell tolled at four o’clock. Da would wash the coal dust off – or at least as much of it as would come – and that would take some time and then he’d be needing his tea. He would maybe put the soup on the fire. At the sheer imbecility of this revolutionary idea, Kate laughed aloud. No man would be cooking his own dinner. She had better hurry – Bridie would be hungry – would he give her a piece to keep going on? And the others would be tumbling in from school. Kate was unafraid in the Kirkyard. Even on the day of the funeral, distraught with grief, she had felt its peace. Now, with its beloved tenant, it was even more of a haven. She hurried to her mother’s grave, aware of many – too many – new graves in five years. ‘Beloved Infant Son’, ‘Dearly Loved Wife, in her Nineteenth Year’. Sad, sad. That was Gracie Flett, Mam, she was at school when I was there. She had to get married, and then she and the bairn died. Was she ever happy, Mam? Look at these primroses. If I can get you some daffodils, later on, I will but these are bonnie. Me and wee Bridie got them for you up the Baker’s Burn. From down the hill came the sound of the school bell. I’ll need tae go, Mam. I don’t know when I’ll get back up but I do think about you. Cheerio. Swift as a deer Kate whirled and ran until she reached the village and then she decorously tidied her hair and walked as in the year of Our Lord 1911, the eldest daughter of a respectable family should.

  Charlie Inglis saw her as she sailed down the main street, glancing neither to right nor left. Looking as if she owns the place, he laughed to himself. Charlie was not inexperienced. Auchenbeath was a far cry from Glasgow and Kate Kennedy very different from any girl he had dallied with before. There would be no dallying here. For one thing, it was impossible to blow your nose in Auchenbeath without the entire community commenting on the event and he sensed that Kate was not the playing with fire type. A man would have to be very sure of what he wanted and what he was prepared to both sacrifice and accept before he paid court here. He knew Kate’s history – his mother and his aunt had corresponded regularly over the years – and he knew Mrs Murphy admired and pitied Kate for the lot life had awarded her. But did Kate pity Kate? He could see no sign of self-pity, no sign that Kate resented the fate that had robbed her of her childhood and her mother in the self-same moment. Sure, life is harder in Glasgow for lassies like her, he thought. At least her da has a job and a bit room and kitchen and the air she breathes is clean and fresh. The skin on her, I’ve not seen skin like it and those eyes . . .

  Charlie forgot all his doubts and hurried to catch up with her.

  ‘Well, Miss Kate,’ he began since he knew full well that he had come on far too strong at their first meeting, ‘have you enjoyed your outing on this beautiful day?’

  Kate had forgotten that he had embarrassed her and was able to greet Charlie quite naturally. ‘It was lovely up there, up the Baker’s Burn. You won’t know it if you’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Then since you wouldn’t let me come with you, Miss Kate, you must tell me all about it and I shall think about it in the dark hours down the pit.’

  Kate looked sideways at him from out of her clear, candid eyes. ‘You’d be better off thinking about what you’re supposed to be doing, Mr Charlie Inglis.’ And then she laughed and described it to him anyway.

  3

  IN 1914 A wireless set was a luxury that Liam Kennedy could not afford; neither did
his wages from the pit run to the purchase of a daily newspaper. He and his family, however, always seemed to know all that was happening, not only in Auchenbeath but all over the world. There were newspapers in the miners’ club and Liam went there regularly. As events in Europe became more interesting and more frightening, Kate began to call into the club on the way back from delivering Bridie to the school. This was a good time as the men were either asleep or down the pits and she had peace and privacy to read them from cover to cover. Coverage of the royal family fascinated her; they were real but unreal, gilded beings who lived cocooned in a world where there was no pain. No pain, that is, until a beautiful hot day in June.

  ‘Some duke’s been killed in a place called Sarajevo,’ she told Charlie, who was on backshift and therefore at home. Together they looked for Sarajevo and Bosnia on Charlie’s old school atlas, unaware of how their lives and the lives of countless others were to be changed by that assassination.

  War was declared on August 4th, 1914. Kate read the official announcement again and again to unlettered boys and women who crowded into the miners’ club.

  ‘I’ll need to away and tell my da,’ she said and pushed her way out of the shabby room.

  Liam was in the kitchen eating his breakfast and Kate was too upset by her news to really notice that their neighbour, Mrs Murphy, was sitting having a cup of tea with him.

  Within a few days, Charlie was calling in on the way from the pit with news. ‘They’ve made auld Kitchener Secretary of State for War.’

  ‘Is that not great news, Kate?’ said Mrs Murphy who was once more in the kitchen, having dropped in just as Liam was leaving for the backshift. ‘He’ll soon fix them like he did in South Africa.’

  But he didn’t and within a few days many men and boys had left the village to join up. Patrick ached to join them. He brought it up one morning when they were all at breakfast.