Lewis Grassic Gibbon - A
Scots Quair
Part of the "Our Class, Our Culture" series of educational meetings held
in the name of the Morning Star - the only english language Socialist
daily paper
Sunset Song Parts 1-3
Sunset Song Parts 4-6
Lewis Grassic Gibbon was born James Leslie Mitchell at
the dawn of the twentieth century in 1901 in Aberdeenshire. Spending
most of his childhood in Arbuthnott, a farming community in the Mearns,
his family and community's tie to the land was to create a love-hate
relationship between this area and the writer which lasted until his
early death in 1935.
Mitchell left school early after arguments with the school authorities
in Mackie Academy, Stonehaven. As a journalist in Aberdeen and briefly
in Glasgow, he became increasingly involved in left-wing politics and
helped to form the Aberdeen Soviet. His short experience of Glasgow, its
slums, and its Red Clydeside movement led him to later criticise the
Scottish Renaissance movement for not dealing with urban issues and the
horrific slums of Glasgow.
Having been sacked from the 'Scottish Farmer' paper for fraudulent
expense claims, Mitchell later joined the army more for the food and
shelter it offered than for any patriotic reason. Although Mitchell
hated life in the army, it did allow him to travel, in particular to the
Middle East and Egypt, which fuelled his interest in ancient
civilisations and the theory of diffusionism. His military experiences
in the Middle East inspired his first short stories and much of his
fiction and non-fiction.
From 1930 to 1934, eleven novels, two books of short stories, three
anthropological books and an 'Intelligent Man's Guide to Albyn' with
Hugh MacDiarmid entitled Scottish Scene, were published under the names
Mitchell and Gibbon. On his death in 1935, outlines of many other books,
from novels to an autobiography were left.
The most important of this author’s vast output in such a small amount
of time is the trilogy of novels, A Scots Quair published under the name
Lewis Grassic Gibbon (taken from the author's mother's maiden name). The
Quair, and in particular Sunset Song, has outlived much of his other
work to become a Scottish classic.
Works
Lewis Grassic Gibbon is the more distinctly Scottish alter-ego of James
Leslie Mitchell, and although there are many interesting books written
under the Mitchell name, the writer’s best and most enduring works were
published under the name Gibbon. Mitchell’s Stained Radiance and The
Thirteenth Disciple help to give us a glimpse of the life of the writer
and Spartacus is an inspiring novel which gives insight into Mitchell’s
political and religious thoughts, yet the Scottish books show more
clearly his talents as a writer and thinker.
Lewis Grassic Gibbon's most famous work and indeed his greatest
achievement is A Scots Quair. The Quair (meaning book), is a trilogy
which was published over three years as Sunset Song (1932), Cloud Howe
(1933), and Grey Granite (1934). Following the life of its heroine Chris
Guthrie, the three novels take the reader from the Great War to the
growing communism of the 1920s and are innovative in their style,
language and thought.
Sunset Song is Gibbon's most loved work and, out of the three Quair
novels, the most satisfying to read as a single book. The Prelude to the
novel can be off-putting to the reader at first because of its
rollercoaster ride through the history of the village of Kinraddie in a
language which takes a while to get used to. The language and style of
the novel are groundbreaking in that they create a version of Scots
which is universal in its nature and which draws the reader in by using
an inclusive 'you' voice which unites the heroine's voice with the
'speak of the Mearns' and indeed the voice of the reader. At first
however, the Prelude can appear difficult and this is why Gibbon himself
suggested that the reader could skip it at first and return to it later.
The title of the Prelude, 'The Unfurrowed Field', and its introduction
to all the villagers of Kinraddie, helps to emphasise the cyclical
nature of the novel which follows the stages of Chris Guthrie's life
through comparisons with the stages of the farming year.
The young Chris must choose between life on the land, her Scottish
identity, and the English part of her which draws her away from home
towards books and education. Yet even once she has made her decision,
the way of life of her community is altered forever by the Great War.
Every aspect of Chris and Kinraddie's life is affected, from the
destruction of the land by the cutting down of trees, to the destruction
of her home life in the change which war brings to her husband, to the
loss of the old songs of the place which are replaced by the blues from
America. However, it is important that while Sunset Song mourns the loss
of a past age, it is not hopeless. The images of light and the morning
star in the closing pages of the novel anticipate the rest of the
trilogy, emphasizing Gibbon's desire to construct a future rather than
simply mourn the loss of a Golden Age. Rev Robert Colquohoun's speech at
the end of Sunset Song, importantly situated at the standing stones
which are Chris's connection to the past throughout the novel, gives the
events of the novel a place in a line of history which looks back as
well as looking forward.
Sunset Song is a rounded novel in itself, featuring festive and comic
episodes within a grand tragic trajectory, but when seen as part of the
Quair as a whole, it sets a problem which the other two books attempt to
answer. Often seen as Sunset Song's poorer companions, Cloud Howe and
Grey Granite evaluate Robert Colquohoun's (Chris's second husband) and
Ewan's (Chris's son) solutions for the future of Scotland. Robert's
Christian socialism and Ewan's communism both seek to raise Scotland
from the ashes of war but are seen by Chris to be 'pillars of cloud',
followed by men who seek solutions which cannot endure. Running through
the Quair is the concept that only the ever-changing land can endure,
and only Chris, who is simultaneously connected to the land and
distanced from it, can fully realise this.
Moving from village, to town, to city A Scots Quair is packed with
lively and comical characters and situations which make it an
entertaining read. However it is also an exploration of the mythical and
symbolic (particularly in the idea of Chris as a symbol of Scotland) as
well as an exploration of religious and political movements. It is
perhaps best captured by Kurt Wittig when he describes the three levels
on which the Quair works: 'the personal, the social, and the mythical'.
Gibbon's other most enjoyable work is probably his short story 'Smeddum'
which describes the life of the lively Meg and the conflict with her
children, and his essay on 'The Land' which helps to describe his
love-hate relationship with the land. This essay gives a helpful
background to Sunset Song and illustrates Gibbon's frustration at the
necessary connection between the land and those who work on it. The
darker aspects of this connection are again explored in his short
stories 'Greenden' and 'Clay', the latter story again raising a dilemma
between the land and university while emphasising the importance of
women's experience in the early twentieth century.
Reading Lists
Primary
Works published under the name of James Leslie Mitchell
Hanno, or The Future of Exploration (1928)
Stained Radiance: A Fictionist's Prelude (1930)
The Thirteenth Disciple (1931)
The Calends of Cairo (1931)
Three Go Back (1932)
Persian Dawns, Egyptian Nights (1932)
The Lost Trumpet (1932)
Image and Superscription (1933)
Gay Hunter (1934)
The Conquest of the Maya (1934)
Under the name of Lewis Grassic Gibbon
Sunset Song (1932)
Cloud Howe (1933)
Grey Granite (1934)
A Scots Quair (1946)
Scottish Scene: or, The Intelligent Man's Guide to Albyn (1934)
Niger: The Life of Mungo Park (1934)
A Scots Hairst: Essays and Short Stories ed. by Ian S Munro (1967)
Smeddum: Short Stories and Essays ed. by D M Budge (1980)
The Speak of the Mearns ed. by Ian Campbell (1982)
Under the name of JLM and LGG combined
Nine Against The Unknown: A Record of Geographical Exploration (1934)
Secondary
Campbell, Ian, Lewis Grassic Gibbon (1985)
Ehland, Christoph, Picaresque Perspectives - Exiled Identities: A
Structural and Methodological Analysis of the Picaresque as a Literary
Archetype in the Works of James Leslie Mitchell (2003)
Geddes, Clarke, Nemesis in the Mearns (1996) (fictionalisation)
Gifford, Douglas, Neil M Gunn and Lewis Grassic Gibbon (1983)
McCulloch, Margery Palmer, and Dunnigan, Sarah M, editors, A Flame in
the Mearns Lewis Grassic Gibbon: A Centenary Celebration, Association
for Scottish Literary Studies Occasional Papers: Number 13 (2003)
Munro, Ian S, Leslie Mitchell: Lewis Grassic Gibbon (1966)
Whitfield, Peter, Grassic Gibbon and his World (1994)
Young, Douglas F, Beyond the Sunset: A Study of James Leslie Mitchell
(Lewis Grassic Gibbon) (1973)
Here is Sunset Song (which
is recognised as
by being by far the best of the three) for you to read here... (Note: In 2005 Sunset Song was named the "Best Scottish Book of All Time" at the Edinburgh International Book Festival.)
A SCOTS QUAIR
SUNSET SONG | CLOUD HOWE | GREY GRANITE
by
Lewis Grassic Gibbon
Sunset
Songfirst published 1932
Cloud Howefirst published
1933
Grey Granitefirst published
1934
First published in one
volume asA Scots Quairby
Jarrolds 1946
Kinraddie lands had been won by a Norman childe,
Cospatric de Gondeshil, in the days of William the Lyon, when gryphons
and suchlike beasts still roamed the Scots countryside and folk would
waken in their beds to hear the children screaming, with a great
wolf-beast, come through the hide window, tearing at their throats. In
the Den of Kinraddie one such beast had its lair and by day it lay about
the woods and the stench of it was awful to smell all over the
countryside, and at gloaming a shepherd would see it, with its great
wings half-folded across the great belly of it and its head, like the
head of a meikle cock, but with the ears of a lion, poked over a fir
tree, watching. And it ate up sheep and men and women and was a fair
terror, and the King had his heralds cry a reward to whatever knight
would ride and end the mischieving of the beast.
So the Norman childe, Cospetric, that was young and
landless and fell brave and well-armoured, mounted his horse in
Edinburgh Town and came North, out of the foreign south parts, up
through the Forest of Fife and into the pastures of Forfar and past
Aberlemno's Meikle Stane that was raised when the Picts beat the Danes;
and by it he stopped and looked at the figures, bright then and hardly
faded even now, of the horses and the charging and the rout of those
coarse foreign folk. And maybe he said a bit prayer by that Stone and
then he rode into the Mearns, and the story tells no more of his riding
but that at last come he did to Kinraddie, a tormented place, and they
told him where the gryphon slept, down there in the Den of Kinraddie.
But in the daytime it hid in the woods and only at night,
by a path through the hornbeams, might he come at it, squatting in
bones, in its lair. And Cospatric waited for the night to come and rode
to the edge of Kinraddie Den and commended his soul to God and came off
his horse and took his boar-spear in his hand, and went down into the
Den and killed the gryphon. And he sent the news to William the Lyon,
sitting drinking the wine and fondling his bonny lemans in Edinburgh
Town, and William made him the Knight of Kinraddie, and gave to him all
the wide parish as his demesne and grant to build him a castle there,
and wear the sign of a gryphon's head for a crest and keep down all
beasts and coarse and wayward folk, him and the issue of his body for
ever after.
So Cospatric got him the Pict folk to build a strong
castle there in the lithe of the hills, with the Grampians bleak and
dark behind it, and he had the Den drained and he married a Pict lady
and got on her bairns and he lived there till he died. And his son took
the name Kinraddie, and looked out one day from the castle wall and saw
the Earl Marischal come marching up from the south to join the
Highlandmen in the battle that was fought at Mondynes, where now the
meal-mill stands; and he took out his men and fought there, but on which
side they do not say, but maybe it was the winning one, they were aye
gey and canny folk, the Kinraddies.
And the great-grandson of Cospatric, he joined the
English against the cateran Wallace, and when Wallace next came marching
up from the southlands Kinraddie and other noble folk of that time they
got them into Dunnottar Castle that stands out in the sea beyond
Kinneff, well-builded and strong, and the sea splashes about it in the
high tides and there the din of the gulls is a yammer night and day.
Much of meal and meat and gear they took with them, and they laid
themselves up there right strongly, they and their carles, and wasted
all the Mearns that the Cateran who dared rebel against the fine English
king might find no provision for his army of coarse and landless men.
But Wallace came through the Howe right swiftly and he heard of
Dunnottar and laid siege to it and it was a right strong place and he
had but small patience with strong places. So, in the dead of one night,
when the thunder of the sea drowned the noise of his feint, he climbed
the Dunnottar rocks and was over the wall, he and the vagabond Scots,
and they took Dunnottar and put to the slaughter the noble folk gathered
there, and all the English, and spoiled them of their meat and gear, and
marched away.
Kinraddie Castle that year, they tell, had but a young
bride new home and she had no issue of her body, and the months went by
and she rode to the Abbey of Aberbrothock where the good Abbot, John,
was her cousin, and told him of her trouble and how the line of
Kinraddie was like to die. So he lay with her that was September, and
next year a boy was born to the young bride, and after that the
Kinraddies paid no heed to wars and bickerings but sat them fast in
their Castle lithe in the hills, with their gear and bonny leman queans
and villeins libbed for service.
And when the First Reformation came and others came after
it and some folk criedWhiggam!and
some criedRome!and
some criedThe King!the
Kinraddies sat them quiet and decent and peaceable in their castle, and
heeded never a fig the arguings of folk, for wars were unchancy things.
But then Dutch William came, fair plain a fixture that none would move,
and the Kinraddies were all for the Covenant then, they had aye had
God's Covenant at heart, they said. So they builded a new kirk down
where the chapel had stood, and builded a manse by it, there in the
middle of the yews where the cateran Wallace had hid when the English
put him to rout at last. And one Kinraddie, John Kinraddie, went south
and became a great man in the London court, and was crony of the
creatures Johnson and James Boswell and once the two of them, John
Kinraddie and James Boswell, came up to the Mearns on an idle ploy and
sat drinking wine and making coarse talk far into the small hours night
after night till the old laird wearied of them and then they would steal
away and as James Boswell set in his diary,Did
get to the loft where the maids were, and oneΠεγγι
Δυνδας wας φατ ιν τhε βυττοcχς ανδ ι διδ λιε wιτh hερ. [Ed. note: ...,
and one Peggi Dundas was fat in the buttocks and I did lie with her.]
But in the early days of the nineteenth century it was an
ill time for the Scots gentry, for the poison of the French Revolution
came over the seas and crofters and common folk like that stood up and
criedAway to hell!when
the Auld Kirk preached submission from its pulpits. Up as far as
Kinraddie came the poison and the young laird of that time, and he was
Kenneth, he called himself a Jacobin and joined the Jacobin Club of
Aberdeen and there at Aberdeen was nearly killed in the rioting, for
liberty and equality and fraternity, he called it. And they carried him
back to Kinraddie a cripple, but he would still have it that all men
were free and equal and he set to selling the estate and sending the
money to France, for he had a real good heart. And the crofters marched
on Kinraddie Castle in a body and bashed in the windows of it, they
thought equality should begin at home.
More than half the estate had gone in this driblet and
that while the cripple sat and read his coarse French books; but nobody
guessed that till he died and then his widow, poor woman, found herself
own no more than the land that lay between the coarse hills, the
Grampians, and the farms that stood out by the Bridge End above the
Denburn, straddling the outward road. Maybe there were some twenty to
thirty holdings in all, the crofters dour folk of the old Pict stock,
they had no history, common folk, and ill-reared their biggins clustered
and chaved amid the long, sloping fields. The leases were one-year,
two-year, you worked from the blink of the day you were breeked to the
flicker of the night they shrouded you, and the dirt of gentry sat and
ate up your rents but you were as good as they were.
So that was Kenneth's leaving to his lady body, she wept
right sore over the pass that things had come to, but they kittled up
before her own jaw was tied in a clout and they put her down in
Kinraddie vault to lie by the side of her man. Three of her bairns were
drowned at sea, fishing off the Bevie braes they had been, but the
fourth, the boy Cospatric, him that died the same day as the Old Queen,
he was douce and saving and sensible, and set putting the estate to
rights. He threw out half the little tenants, they flitted off to Canada
and Dundee and parts like those, the others he couldn't move but slowly.
But on the cleared land he had bigger steadings built and
he let them at bigger rents and longer leases, he said the day of the
fine big farm had come. And he had woods of fir and larch and pine
planted to shield the long, bleak slopes, and might well have retrieved
the Kinraddie fortunes but that he married a Morton quean with black
blood in her, she smitted him and drove him to drink and death, that was
the best way out. For his son was clean daft, they locked him up at last
in an asylum, and that was the end of Kinraddie family, the Meikle House
that stood where the Picts had builded Cospatric's castle crumbled to
bits like a cheese, all but two-three rooms the trustees held as their
offices, the estate was mortgaged to the hilt by then.
So by the winter of nineteen eleven there were no more
than nine bit places left the Kinraddie estate, the Mains the biggest of
them, it had been the Castle home farm in the long past times. An Irish
creature, Erbert Ellison was the name, ran the place for the trustees,
he said, but if you might believe all the stories you heard he ran a
hantle more silver into his own pouch than he ran into theirs. Well
might you expect it, for once he'd been no more than a Dublin waiter,
they said. That had been in the time before Lord Kinraddie, the daft
one, had gone clean skite. He had been in Dublin, Lord Kinraddie, on
some drunken ploy, and Ellison had brought his whisky for him and some
said he had halved his bed with him. But folk would say anything.
So the daftie took Ellison back with him to Kinraddie and
made him his servant, and sometimes, when he was real drunk and the
fairlies came sniftering out of the whisky bottles at him, he would
throw a bottle at Ellison and shoutGet
out, you bloody dish-clout!so
loud it was heard across at the Manse and fair affronted the minister's
wife. And old Greig, him that had been the last minister there, he would
glower across at Kinraddie House like John Knox at Holyrood, and say
that God's hour would come. And sure as death it did, off to the asylum
they hurled the daftie, he went with a nurse's mutch on his head and he
put his head out of the back of the waggon and saidCockadoodledoo!to
some school bairns the waggon passed on the road and they all ran home
and were fell frightened.
But Ellison had made himself well acquainted with farming
and selling stock and most with buying horses, so the trustees they made
him manager of the Mains, and he moved into the Mains farmhouse and
looked him round for a wife. Some would have nothing to do with him, a
poor creature of an Irishman who couldn't speak right and didn't belong
to the Kirk, but Ella White she was not so particular and was fell long
in the tooth herself. So when Ellison came to her at the harvest ball in
Auchinblae and criedCan I
see you home to-night, me dear?she
saidOch, Ay.And
on the road home they lay among the stooks and maybe Ellison did this
and that to make sure of getting her, he was fair desperate for any
woman by then.
They were married next New Year's Day, and Ellison had
begun to think himself a gey man in Kinraddie, and maybe one of the
gentry. But the bothy billies, the ploughmen and the orra men of the
Mains, they'd never a care for gentry except to mock at them and on the
eve of Ellison's wedding they took him as he was going into his house
and took off his breeks and tarred his dowp and the soles of his feet
and stuck feathers on them and then they threw him into the
water-trough, as was the custom. And he called themBloody
Scotch savages,and was
in an awful rage and at the term-time he had them sacked, the whole
jingbang of them, so sore affronted he had been.
But after that he got on well enough, him and his
mistress, Ella White, and they had a daughter, a scrawny bit quean they
thought over good to go to the Auchinblae School, so off she went to
Stonehaven Academy and was taught to be right brave and swing about in
the gymnasium there with wee black breeks on under her skirt. Ellison
himself began to get well-stomached, and he had a red face, big and
sappy, and eyes like a cat, green eyes, and his mouser hung down each
side of a fair bit mouth that was chokeful up of false teeth, awful
expensive and bonny, lined with bits of gold. And he aye wore leggings
and riding breeks, for he was fair gentry by then; and when he would
meet a crony at a mart he would cry Sure,
bot it's you, thin, ould chep! and
the billy would redden up, real ashamed, but wouldn't dare say anything,
for he wasn't a man you'd offend. In politics he said he was a
Conservative but everybody in Kinraddie knew that meant he was a Tory
and the bairns of Strachan, him that farmed the Peesie's Knapp, they
would scraich out
Inky poo, your nose is blue,
You're awful like the Turra Coo
whenever they saw Ellison go by. For he'd sent a
subscription to the creature up Turriff way whose cow had been sold to
pay his Insurance, and folk said it was no more than a show off, the Cow
creature and Ellison both; and they laughed at him behind his back.
So that was the Mains, below the Meikle House, and
Ellison farmed it in his Irish way and right opposite, hidden away among
their yews, were kirk and manse, the kirk an old, draughty place and in
the wintertime, right in the middle of the Lord's Prayer, maybe, you'd
hear an outbreak of hoasts fit to lift off the roof, and Miss Sarah
Sinclair, her that came from Netherhill and played the organ, she'd
sneeze into her hymnbook and miss her bit notes and the minister, him
that was the old one, he'd glower down at her more like John Knox than
ever.
Next door the kirk was an olden tower, built in the time
of the Roman Catholics, the coarse creatures, and it was fell old and
wasn't used any more except by the cushat-doves and they flew in and out
the narrow slips in the upper storey and nested there all the year round
and the place was fair white with their dung. In the lower half of the
tower was an effigy-thing of Cospatric de Gondeshil, him that killed the
gryphon, lying on his back with his arms crossed and a daft-like simper
on her face; and the spear he killed the gryphon with was locked in a
kist there, or so some said, but others said it was no more than an old
bit heuch from the times of Bonny Prince Charlie. So that was the tower,
but it wasn't fairly a part of the kirk, the real kirk was split in two
bits, the main hall and the wee hall, and some called them the byre and
the turnip-shed, and the pulpit stood midway.
Once the wee hall had been for the folk from the Meikle
House and their guests and suchlike gentry but nearly anybody that had
the face went ben and sat there now, and the elders sat with the
collection bags, and young Murray, him that blew the organ for Sarah
Sinclair. It had fine glass windows, awful old, the wee hall with three
bit creatures of queans, not very decent-like in a kirk, as
window-pictures. One of the queans was Faith, and faith she looked a
daft-like keek for she was lifting up her hands and her eyes like a
heifer choked on a turnip and the bit blanket round her shoulders was
falling off her but she didn't seem to heed, and there was a swither of
scrolls and fiddley-faddles all about her.
And the second quean was Hope and she was near as unco as
Faith, but had right bonny hair, red hair, though maybe you'd call it
auburn, and in the winter-time the light in the morning service would
come splashing through the yews in the kirkyard and into the wee hall
through the red hair of Hope. And the third quean was Charity, with a
lot of naked bairns at her feet and she looked a fine and decent-like
woman, for all that she was tied about with such daft-like clouts.
But the windows of the main hall, though they were
coloured, they had never a picture in them and there were no pictures in
there at all, who wanted them? Only coarse creatures like Catholics
wanted a kirk to look like a grocer's calendar. So it was decent and
bare-like, with its carved old seats, some were cushioned and some were
not, if you weren't padded by nature and had the silver to spend you
might put in cushions to suit your fancy. Right up in the lithe of the
pulpit, at angles-like to the rest of the kirk, were the three seats
where the choir sat and led the hymn-singing; and some called it the
calfies' stall.
The back door, that behind the pulpit, led out across the
kirkyard to the Manse and its biggings, set up in the time of the Old
Queen, and fair bonny to look at, but awful damp said all the ministers'
wives. But ministers' wives were aye folk to complain and don't know
when they're well off, them and the silver they get for their bit
creatures of men preaching once or twice a Sunday and so proud they
hardly know you when they meet you on the road. The minister's study was
high up in the house, it looked out over all Kinraddie, at night he'd
see from there the lights of the farmhouses like a sprinkling of bright
sands below his window and the flagstaff light high among the stars on
the roof of the Meikle House. But that nineteen eleven December the
Manse was empty and had been empty for many a month, the old minister
was dead and the new one not yet voted on; and the ministers from
Drumlithie and Arbuthnott and Laurencekirk they came time about in the
Sunday forenoons and took the service there at Kinraddie; and God knows
for all they had to say they might well have bidden at home.
But if you went out of the kirk by the main door and took
the road east a bit, and that was the road that served kirk and Manse
and Mains, you were on to the turnpike then. It ran north and south but
opposite to the road you'd just come down was another, that went through
Kinraddie by the Bridge End farm. So there was a cross-roads there and
if you held to the left along the turnpike you came to Peesie's Knapp,
one of the olden places, no more than a croft of thirty-forty acres with
some rough ground for pasture, but God knows there was little pasture on
it, it was just a fair schlorich of whins and broom and dirt, full up of
rabbits and hares it was, they came out at night and ate up your crops
and sent a body fair mad. But it wasn't bad land the most of the Knapp,
there was the sweat of two thousand years in it, and the meikle park
behind the biggings was black loam, not the red clay that sub-soiled
half Kinraddie.
Now Peesie's Knapp's biggings were not more than twenty
years old, but gey ill-favoured for all that, for though the house faced
on the road--and that was fair handy if it didn't scunner you that you
couldn't so much as change your sark without some ill-fashioned brute
gowking in at you--right between the byre and the stable and the barn on
one side and the house on the other was the cattle-court and right in
the middle of that the midden, high and yellow with dung and straw and
sharn, and Mistress Strachan could never forgive Peesie's Knapp because
of that awful smell it had.
But Chae Strachan, him that farmed the place, he just
saidHoots, what's a bit
guff?and would start to
tell of the terrible smells he'd smelt when he was abroad. For he'd been
a fell wandering billy, Chae, in the days before he came back to
Scotland and was fee'd his last fee at Netherhill. He'd been in Alaska,
looking for gold there, but damn the bit of gold he'd seen, so he'd
farmed in California till he was so scunnered of fruit he'd never look
an orange or a pear in the face again, not even in a tin. And then he'd
gone on to South Africa and had had great times there, growing real
chieflike with the head one of a tribe of blacks, but an awful decent
man for all that. Him and Chae had fought against Boers and British
both, and beaten them, or so Chae said, but folk that didn't like Chae
said all the fighting he'd ever done had been with his mouth and that as
for beaten, he'd be sore made to beat the skin off a bowl of sour milk.
For he wasn't well liked by them that set themselves up
for gentry, Chae, being a socialist creature and believing we should all
have the same amount of silver and that there shouldn't be rich and poor
and that one man was as good as another. And the silver bit of that was
clean daft, of course, for if you'd all the same money one day what
would it be the next?--Rich and Poor again! But Chae said the four
ministers of Kinraddie and Auchinblae and Laurencekirk and Drumlithie
were all paid much the same money last year and what had they this
year?--Much the same money still!You'll
have to get out of bed slippy in the morning before you find a socialist
tripping and if you gave me any of your lip I'll clout you in the lug,
my mannie.
So Chae was fell good in argy-bargying and he wasn't the
quarrelsome kind except when roused, so he was well-liked, though folk
laughed at him. But God knows, who is it they don't laugh at? He was a
pretty man, well upstanding, with great shoulders on him and his hair
was fair and fine and he had a broad brow and a gey bit coulter of a
nose, and he twisted his mouser ends up with wax like that creature the
German Kaiser, and he could stop a running stirk by the horns, so strong
he was in the wrist-bones. And he was one of the handiest billies in
Kinraddie, he would libb a calf or break in a horse or kill a pig, all
in a jiffy, or tile your dairy or cut the bairns' hair or dig a well,
and all the time he'd be telling you that socialism was coming or if it
wasn't then an awful crash would come and we'd all go back to savagery,Dam't
ay, man!
But folk said he'd more need to start socializing
Mistress Strachan, her that had been Kirsty Sinclair of Netherhill,
before he began on anybody else. She had a fell tongue, they said, that
would clip clouts and yammer a tink from a door, and if Chae wasn't fair
sick now and then for his hut and a fine black quean in South Africa
damn the hut or the quean had he ever had. He'd feed'd at Netherhill
when he came back from foreign parts, had Chae, and there had been but
two daughters there, Kirsty and Sarah, her that played the kirk organ.
Both were wearing on a bit, sore in the need of a man, and Kirsty with a
fair letdown as it was, for it had seemed that a doctor billy from
Aberdeen was out to take up with her. So he had done and left her in a
gey way and her mother, old Mistress Sinclair, near went out of her mind
with the shame of it when Kirsty began to cry and tell her the news.
Now that was about the term-time and home to Netherhill
from the feeing market who should old Sinclair of Netherhill bring but
Chae Strachan, with his blood warmed up from living in those foreign
parts and an eye for less than a wink of invitation? But even so he was
gey slow to get on with the courting and just hung around Kirsty like a
futret round a trap with a bit meat in it, not sure if the meat was
worth the risk; and the time was getting on and faith! Something drastic
would have to be done.
So one night after they had all had supper in the kitchen
and old Sinclair had gone pleitering out to the byres, old Mistress
Sinclair had up and nodded to Kirsty and saidAh
well, I'll away to my bed. You'll not be long in making for yours,
Kirsty?And Kirsty saidNo,and
gave her mother a sly bit look, and off the old mistress went up to her
room and then Kirsty began fleering and flirting with Chae and he was a
man warm enough and they were alone together and maybe in a minute he'd
have had her couched down right well there in the kitchen but she
whispered it wasn't safe. So he off with his boots and she with hers and
up the stairs they crept together into Kirsty's room and were having
their bit pleasure together whenouf!went
the door and in burst old Mistress Sinclair with the candle held up in
one hand and the other held up in horror.No,
no,she'd said,this
won't do at all, Chakie, my man, you'll have to marry her.And
there had been no escape for Chae, poor man, with Kirsty and her mother
both glowering at him.
So married they were and old Sinclair had saved up some
silver and he rented Peesie's Knapp for Chae and Kirsty, and stocked the
place for them, and down they sat there, and Kirsty's bairn, a bit
quean, was born before seven months were past, well-grown and
finished-like it seemed, the creature, in spite of its mother swearing
it had come fair premature.
They'd had two more bairns since then, both laddies, and
both the living spit of Chae, these were the bairns that would sing
about the Turra Coo whenever they met the brave gig of Ellison bowling
along the Kinraddie Road, and faith, they made you laugh.
Right opposite Peesie's Knapp, across the turnpike, the
land climbed red and clay and a rough stone road went wandering up to
the biggings of Blawearie.Out
of the World and into Blaweariethey
said in Kinraddie, and faith! it was coarse land and lonely up there on
the brae, fifty-sixty acres of it, forbye the moor that went on with the
brae high above Blawearie, up to a great flat hill-top where lay a bit
loch that nested snipe by the hundred; and some said there was no bottom
to it, the loch, and Long Rob of the Mill said that made it like the
depths of a parson's depravity.
That was an ill thing to say about any minister, though
Rob said it was an ill thing to say about any loch, but there the
spleiter of water was, a woesome dark stretch fringed rank with rushes
and knife-grass; and the screeching of the snipe fair deafened you if
you stood there of an evening. And few enough did that for nearby the
bit loch was a circle of stones from olden times, some were upright and
some were flat and some leaned this way and that, and right in the
middle three big ones clambered up out of the earth and stood askew with
flat sonsy faces, they seemed to listen and wait. They were Druid stones
and folk told that the Druids had been coarse devils of men in the times
long syne, they'd climb up there and sing their foul heathen songs
around the stones; and if they met a bit Christian missionary they'd gut
him as soon as look at him. And Long Rob of the Mill would say what
Scotland wanted was a return of the Druids, but that was just a speak of
his, for they must have been awful ignorant folk, not canny.
Blawearie hadn't had a tenant for nearly a year, but now
there was one on the way, they said, a creature John Guthrie from up in
the North. The biggings of it stood fine and compact one side of the
close, the midden was back of them, and across the close was the house,
a fell brave house for a little place, it had three storeys and a good
kitchen and a fair stretch of garden between it and Blawearie road.
There were beech trees there, three of them, one was close over against
the house, and the garden hedges grew as bonny with honeysuckle of a
summer as ever you saw; and if you could have lived on the smell of
honeysuckle you might have farmed the bit place with profit.
Well, Peesie's Knapp and Blawearie were the steadings
that lay Stoneheavenway. But if you turned east that winter along the
Auchinblae road first on your right was Cuddiestoun, a small bit holding
the size of Peesie's Knapp and old as it, a croft from the far-off
times. It lay a quarter-mile or so from the main road and its own road
was fair clamjamfried with glaur from late in the harvest till the
coming of Spring. Some said maybe that accounted for Munro's neck, he
could never get the glaur washed out of it. But others said he never
tried. He was on a thirteen years' lease there, Munro, a creature from
down south, Dundee way, and he was a good six feet in height but awful
coarse among the legs, like a lamb with water on the brain, and he had
meikle feet that aye seemed in his way. He was maybe forty years or so
in age, and bald already, and his skin was red and creased in cheeks and
chin and God! you never saw an uglier brute, poor stock.
For there were worse folk than Munro, though maybe they
were all in the jail, and though he could blow and bombast till he fair
scunnered you. He farmed his bit land in a then and now way, and it was
land good enough, the most of it, with the same black streak of loam
that went through the Peesie parks, but ill-drained, the old stone
drains were still down and devil the move would the factor at Meikle
House make to have them replaced, or mend the roof of the byre that
leaked like a sieve on the head of Mistress Munro when she milked the
kye on a stormy night.
But if anybody, chief-like, were to say,God,
that's an awful byre you have, mistress,she
would flare up in a minuteIt's
one and good enough for the like of us.And
if that body, not knowing better, poor billy, were to agree that the
place was well enough for poor folk, she'd up againWho's
poor? Let me tell you we've never needed anybody come to our help,
though we don't boast and blow about it all over the countryside, like
some I could mention.So
the body would think there was no pleasing of the creature, and she was
right well laughed at in all Kinraddie, though not to her face. And that
was a thin one and she had black hair and snapping black eyes like a
futret, and a voice that fair set your hackles on edge when she girned.
But she was the best midwife for miles around, right often in the middle
of the night some poor distracted billy would come chapping at her
windowMistress Munro,
Mistress Munro, will you get up and come to the wife?And
out she'd get, and into her clothes before you could whistle, and out
into the cold of Kinraddie night and go whipping through it like a
futret, and soon be snapping her orders round the kitchen of the house
she'd been summoned to, telling the woman in childbed she might easily
be worse, and being right brisk and sharp and clever.
And the funny thing about the creature was that she
believed none spoke ill of her, for if she heard a bit hint of such,
dropped sly-like, she'd redden up like a stalk of rhubarb in a dung
patch and look as though she might start to cry, and the body would feel
real sorry for her till next minute she'd be screeching at Andy or Tony,
and fleering them out of the little wits they had, poor devils.
Now, Andy and Tony were two dafties that Mistress Munro
had had boarded out on her from an Asylum in Dundee, they weren't
supposed to be dangerous. Andy was a meikle slummock of a creature, and
his mouth was aye open, and he dribbled like a teething foal, and his
nose wabbled all over his face and when he tried to speak it was just a
fair jumble of foolishness. He was the daftest one, but fell sly, he'd
sometimes run away to the hills and stand there with his finger at his
nose, making faces at Mistress Munro, and she'd scraich at him and he'd
yammer back at her and then over the moor he'd get to the bothy at
Upperhill where the ploughmen would give him cigarettes and then torment
him till he fair raged; and once tried to kill one with an axe he caught
up from a hackstock. And at night he'd creep back to Cuddiestoun,
outside he'd make a noise like a dog that had been kicked, and he'd
snuffle round the door till the few remaining hairs on the bald pow of
Munro would fair rise on end. But Mistress Munro would up and be at the
door and in she'd yank Andy by the lug, and some said she'd take down
his breeks and skelp him, but maybe that was a lie. She wasn't feared at
him and he wasn't feared at her, so they were a gey well-matched pair.
And that was the stir at Cuddiestoun, all except Tony,
for the Munros had never a bairn of their own. And Tony, though he
wasn't the daftest, he was the queer one, too, right enough. He was
small-bulked and had a little red beard and sad eyes, and he walked with
his head down and you would feel right sorry for him for sometimes some
whimsy would come on the creature right in the middle of the turnpike it
might be or half-way down a rig of swedes, and there he would stand
staring like a gowk for minutes on end till somebody would shake him
back to his senses. He had fine soft hands, for he was no working body;
folk said he had once been a scholar and written books and learned and
learned till his brain fair softened and right off his head he'd gone
and into the poorhouse asylum.
Now Mistress Munro she'd send Tony errands to the wee
shop out beyond the Bridge End, and tell him what she wanted, plain and
simple-like, and maybe giving him a bit clout in the lug now and then,
as you would a bairn or a daftie. And he'd listen to her and make out he
minded the messages and off to the shop he'd go, and come back without a
single mistake. But one day, after she'd told him the things she wanted,
Mistress Munro saw the wee creature writing on a bit of paper with a
pencil he'd picked up somewhere. And she took the paper from him and
looked at it and turned it this way and that, but feint the thing could
she made of it. So she gave him a bit clout in the lug and asked him
what the writing was. But he just shook his head, real gowked-like and
reached out his hand for the bit of paper, but Mistress Munro would have
none of that and when it was time for the Strachan bairns to pass the
end of the Cuddiestoun road on their way to school down there she was
waiting and gave the paper to the eldest the quean Marget, and told her
to show it to the Dominie and ask him what it might mean.
And at night she was waiting for the Strachan bairns to
come back and they had an envelope for her from the Dominie; and she
opened it and found a note saying the writing was shorthand and that
this was what it read when put in the ordinary way of writing:Two
pounds of sugar The People's Journal half an ounce of mustard a tin of
rat poison a pound of candles and I don't suppose I can swindle her out
of tuppence change for the sake of a smoke, she's certainly the meanest
bitch unhung this side of Tweed.So
maybe Tony wasn't so daft, but he got no supper that night; and she
never asked to see his notes again.
Now, following the Kinraddie road still east, you passed
by Netherhill on your left, five places had held its parks in the
crofter days before Lord Kenneth. But now it was a fair bit farm on its
own, old Sinclair and his wife, a body that was wearing none so
well--soured up the creature was that her eldest daughter Sarah still
bided all unwed--lived in the farm-house, and in the bothy was foreman
and second man and third man and orra lad. The Denburn lay back of the
Netherhill, drifting low and slow and placid in its hollow, feint the
fish had ever been seen in it and folk said that was just as well,
things were fishy enough at Netherhill without the Denburn adding to
them.
Through the rank schlorich of moor that lay between the
place and Peesie's Knapp were the tracks of an old-time road, some said
it was old as Calgacus, him that chased the Romans all to hell at the
battle of Mons Graupius, others said it was a Druid work, laid by them
that set the stones above Blawearie loch. And God! there must have been
an unco few idle masons among the creatures, they'd tried their hands at
another stone circle in the Netherhill moor, right midway the old-time
road. But there were no more than two-three stones above the ground in
this later day, Netherhill's ploughmen swore the rest must have been
torn up and broadcast over the arable land, the parks were as tough and
stony as the heart of the old wife herself.
But it was no bad place for turnips and oats, the
Netherhill, sometimes the hay was fair to middling but the most of the
ground was red clay and over coarse and wet for barley, if it hadn't
been for the droves of pigs old Mistress Sinclair fed and sold in
Laurencekirk maybe her man would never have sat where he did. She came
of Gourdon stock, the old wife, and everybody knows what they are, the
Gourdon fishers, they'd wring silver out of a corpse's wame and call
stinking haddocks perfume fishes and sell them at a shilling a pair.
She'd been a fishing quean before she took up with old Sinclair, and
when they settled down in Netherhill on borrowed money it was she that
would drive to Gourdon twice a week in the little pony lorry and come
back with it stinking out the countryside for miles around with its load
of rotten fish to manure the land. And right well it manured it and
they'd fine crops the first six years or so and then the land was fair
bled white and they'd to stop the fish-manure. But by then the
pig-breeding was fine and paying, their debts were gone, they were
coining silver of their own.
He was a harmless stock, old Sinclair, and had began to
doiter and Mistress Sinclair would push him into his chair at night and
take off his boots and put slippers on him there in front of the kitchen
fire and say to himYou've
tired yourself out again, my lad.And
he'd put his hand below her chin and sayOch,
I'm fine, don't vex yourself. . . . Ay your lad still, am I, lass?And
they'd look at each other, daft-like, two wrinkled old fools, and their
daughter Sarah that was so genteel would be real affronted if there were
visitors about. But Sinclair and his old wife would just shake their
heads at her and in their bed at night, hiddling their old bones close
for warmth, give a bit sigh that no brave billy had ever show
inclination to take Sarah tohisbed.
She'd hoped and peeked and preened long years, and once there had seemed
some hope with Long Rob of the Mill, but Rob wasn't the marrying sort.
God! If Cuddiestoun's dafties were real dafties what would you say of a
man with plenty of silver that bided all by his lone and made his own
bed and did his own baking when he might have had a wife to make him
douce and brave?
But Rob of the Mill had never a thought of what Kinraddie
said of him. Further along the Kinraddie road it stood, the Mill, on the
corner of the side-road that led up to Upperhill, and for ten years now
had Rob bided there alone, managing the Mill and reading the books of a
coarse creature Ingersoll that made watches and didn't believe in God.
He'd aye two-three fine pigs about the Mill had Rob, and fine might well
they be for what did he feed them on but bits of corn and barley he'd
nicked out of the sacks folk brought him to the Mill to grind? Nor could
a body deny but that Long Rob's boar was one of the best in the Mearns;
and they'd bring their sows from as far afield as Laurencekirk to have
them set by that boar of his, a miekle, pretty brute of a beast.
Forbye the Mill and his swine and hens Rob had a
Clydesdale and a sholtie beast he ploughed his twenty acres with, and a
cow or so that never calved, for he'd never time to send them to the
bull though well might he have taken the time instead of sweating and
chaving like a daft one to tear up the coarse moorland behind the Mill
and turn it into a park. He'd started that three years before and wasn't
half through with it yet, it was filled with great holes and ponds and
choked with meikle broom-roots thick as the arm of a man, you never saw
a dafter ploy. They'd hear Rob out in that coarse ground hard at work
when they went to bed, the rest of Kinraddie, whistling away to himself
as though it were nine o'clock in the forenoon and the sun shining
bravely. He'd whistleLadies
of SpainandThere
was a young maidenandThe
lass that made the bed for me,but
devil the lass he'd ever taken to his bed, and maybe that was as well
for the lass; she'd have seen feint the much of him in it beside her.
For after a night of it like that he'd be out again at
the keek of day, and sometimes he'd have the Clydesdale or the sholtie
out there with him and they'd be fine friends, the three of them, till
the beasts would move off when he didn't want them or wouldn't move when
he did; and then he'd fair go mad with them and call them all the
coarsest names he could lay tongue to till you'd think he'd be heard
over half the Mearns; and he'd leather the horses till folk spoke of
sending for the Cruelty, though he'd a way with the beasts too, and
would be friends with them again in a minute, and when he'd been away at
the smithy in Drumlithie or the joiner's in Arbuthnott they'd come
running from the other end of the parks at sight of him and he'd get off
his bicycle and feed them with lumps of sugar he bought and carried
about with him.
He thought himself a gey man with horses, did Rob, and
God! he'd tell you stories about horses till you'd fair be grey in the
head, but he never wearied of them himself, the long, rangy childe. Long
he was, with small bones maybe, but gey broad for all that, with a small
head on him and a thin nose and eyes smoky blue as an iron coulter on a
winter morning, aye glinting, and a long mouser the colour of ripe corn
it was, hanging down the sides of his mouth so that the old minister had
told him he looked like a Viking and he'd saidAh
well, minister, as long as I don't look like a parson I'll wrestle
through the world right content,and
the minister said he was a fool and godless, and his laughter like the
thorns crackling under a pot. And Rob said he'd rather be a thorn than a
sucker any day, for he didn't believe in ministers or kirks, he'd
learned that from the books of Ingersoll though God knows if the
creature's logic was as poor as his watches he was but a sorry prop to
lean on. But Rob said he was fine, and if Christ came down to Kinraddie
he'd be welcome enough to a bit meal or milk at the Mill, but damn the
thing he'd get at the Manse. So that was Long Rob and the stir at the
Mill, some said he wasn't all there but others said Ay, that he was, and
a bit over.
Now Upperhill rose above the Mill, with its larch woods
crowning it, and folk told that a hundred years before five of the
crofter places had crowded there till Lord Kenneth threw their biggins
down and drove them from the parish and built the fine farm of Upperhill.
And twenty years later a son of one of the crofters had come back and
rented the place, Gordon was the name of him, they called him Upprums
for short and he didn't like that, being near to gentry with his meikle
farm and forgetting his father the crofter that had cried like a bairn
all the way from Kinraddie that night the Lord Kenneth drove them out.
He was a small bit man with a white face on him, and he'd long, thin
hair and a nose that wasn't straight but peeked away to one side of his
face and no moustache and wee feet and hands; and he liked to wear
leggings and breeks and carry a bit stick and look as proud as a cock on
a midden.
Mistress Gordon was a Stonehaven woman, her father had
been a bit post-office creature there, but God! to hear her speak you'd
think he'd invented the post office himself and taken out a patent for
it. She was a meikle sow of a woman, but aye well-dressed, and with eyes
like the eyes of a fish, fair cod-like they were, and she tried to speak
English and to make her two bit daughters, Nellie and Maggie Jean, them
that went to Stonehaven Academy, speak English as well. And God! they
made a right muck of it, and if you met the bit things on the road and
saidWell, Nellie, and how
are your mother's hens laying?the
quean would more than likely answer youNot
very meikle the dayand look so proud it was all you could do to stop
yourself catching the futret across your knee and giving her a bit
skelp.
Though she'd only a dove's flitting of a family herself
you'd think to hear Mistress Gordon speak that she'd been clecking
bairns a litter a month since the day she married. It wasNow,
how I brought up Nellie--orAnd
the specialist in Aberdeen, said about Maggie Jean--till folk were
so scunnered they'd never mention a bairn within a mile of Upperhill.
But Rob of the Mill, the coarse brute, he fair mocked her to her face
and he'd tell a storyNow,
when I took my boar to the specialist in Edinburgh, he up and said
'Mister Rob, this is a gey unusual boar, awful delicate, but SO
intelligent, and you should send him to the Academy and some day he'll
be a real credit to you.'And
Mistress Gordon when she heard that story she turned as red as a fire
and forgot her English and said Rob was an orra tink brute.
Forbye the two queans there was the son, John Gordon, as
coarse a devil as you'd meet, he'd already had two-three queans in
trouble and him but barely eighteen years old. But with one of them he'd
met a sore stammy-gaster, her brother was a gardener down Glenbervie way
and when he heard of it he came over to Upperhill and caught young
Gordon out by the cattle-court.You'll
be Jock?he said, and
young Gordon saidKeep
your damned hands to yourself,and
the billy saidAy, but
first I'll wipe them on a dirty clout,and
with that he up with a handful of sharn and splattered it all over young
Gordon and then rolled him in the greip till he was a sight to sicken a
sow from its supper.
The bothy men heard the ongoing and came tearing out but
soon as they saw it was only young Gordon that was being mischieved they
did no more than laugh and stand around and cry one to the other that
here was a real fine barrow-load of dung lying loose in the greip. So
the Drumlithie billy, minding his sister and her shame, wasn't sharp to
finish with his tormenting, young Gordon looked like a half-dead cat and
smelt like a whole-dead one for a week after, a sore affront to
Upperhill's mistress. She went tearing round to the bothy and made at
the foreman, a dour young devil of a Highlandman, Ewan Tavendale,Why
didn't you help my Johnnie?and
Ewan saidI was fee'd as
the foreman here, not as the nursemaid,he
was an impudent brute, calm as you please, but an awful good worker,
folk said he could smell the weather and had fair the land in his bones.
Now the eighth of the Kinraddie places you could call
hardly a place at all, for that was Pooty's, midway along the Kinraddie
road between the Mill and Bridge End. It was no more than a butt and a
ben, with a rickle of sheds behind it where old Pooty kept his cow and
bit donkey that was nearly as old as himself and faith! twice as
good-looking; and folk said the cuddy had bided so long with Pooty that
whenever it opened its mouth to give a bit bray it started to stutter.
For old Pooty was maybe the worst stutterer ever heard in the Mearns and
the worst of that worst was that he didn't know it and he'd clean compel
any minister creature organising a concert miles around to give him a
platform part. Then up he'd get on the platform, the doitered old fool,
and reciteWeeeee,
ssss-leek-ed, ccccccowering TIMROUS BEASTIEor
such-like poem and it was fair agony to hear him.
He'd lived at Pooty's a good fifty years they said, his
father the crofter of the Knapp before that time, hardly a soul knew his
name, maybe he'd forgotten it himself. He was the oldest inhabitant of
Kinraddie and fell proud of it, though what there was to be proud of in
biding all that while in a damp, sour house that a goat would hardly
have stopped to ease itself in God knows. He was a shoe-maker, the
creature, and called himself the Sutor, an old-fashioned name that folk
laughed at. He'd grey hair aye falling about his lugs and maybe he
washed on New Year's Days and birthdays, but not oftener, and if anybody
had ever seen him in anything but the grey shirt with the red neckband
he'd kept the fact a dead secret all to himself.
Alec Mutch was farmer of Bridge End that stood beyond the
Denburn head, he'd come there up from Stonehaven way, folk said he was
head over heels in debt, and damn it you couldn't wonder with a slummock
of a wife like that to weigh him down. A grand worker was Alec and
Bridge End not the worst of Kinraddie, though wet in the bottom up where
its parks joined on to Upperhill. Two pairs of horses it was stabled for
but Alec kept no more than three bit beasts, he'd say he was waiting for
his family to grow up before he completed the second pair. And fast
enough the family came, if she couldn't do much else, Mistress Mutch,
fell seldom a year went by but she was brought to bed with a bairn,
Mutch fair grew used to dragging himself out in the middle of the night
and tearing off to Bervie for the doctor. And the doctor, old Meldrum he
was, he'd wink at Alec and cryMan,
Man, have you been at it again?and
Alec would sayDamn
it, you've hardly to look at a woman these days but she's in the family
way.
So some said that he must glower at his mistress a fell
lot, and that was hard enough to believe, she was no great beauty, with
a cock eye and a lazy look and nothing worried her, not a mortal thing,
not though her five bairns were all yammering blue murder at the same
minute and the smoke coming down the chimney and spoiling the dinner and
the cattle broken into the yard and eating up her clean washing. She'd
sayAh well, it'll make no
difference a hundred years after I'm dead,and
light up a bit cigarette, like a tink, for aye she carried a packet of
the things about with her, she was the speak of half the Mearns, her and
her smoking.
Two of the five bairns were boys, the oldest eleven, and
the whole five of them had the Mutch face, broad and boney and tapering
to a chinney point, like the face of an owlet or a fox, and meikle lugs
on them like the handles on a cream-jar. Alec himself had such lugs that
they said he flapped them against the flies in the summer-time, and once
he was coming home on his bicycle from Laurencekirk, and he was real
drunk and at the steep brae above the Denburn bridge he mistook the flow
of the water for the broad road and in between coping and bank he went
and head over heels into the clay bed twenty feet below; and often he'd
tell that if he hadn't landed on a lug he might well have been brained,
but Long Rob of the Mill would laugh and sayBrained?
Good God, Mutch, you were never in danger of that!
So that was Kinraddie that bleak winter of nineteen
eleven and the new minister, him they chose early next year, he was to
say it was the Scots countryside itself, fathered between a kailyard and
a bonny brier bush in the lee of a house with green shutters. And what
he meant by that you could guess at yourself if you'd a mind for puzzles
and dirt, there wasn't a house with green shutters in the whole of
Kinraddie.
Below and around where Chris Guthrie lay the June moors
whispered and rustled and shook their cloaks, yellow with broom and
powdered faintly with purple, that was the heather but not the full
passion of its colour yet. And in the east against the cobalt blue of
the sky lay the shimmer of the North Sea, that was by Bervie, and maybe
the wind would veer there in an hour or so and you'd feel the change in
the life and strum of the thing, bringing a streaming coolness out of
the sea.
But for days now the wind had been in the south, it shook
and played in the moors and went dandering up the sleeping Grampians,
the rushes pecked and quivered about the loch when its hand was upon
them, but it brought more heat than cold, and all the parks were fair
parched, sucked dry, the red clay soil of Blawearie gaping open for the
rain that seemed never-coming. Up here the hills were brave with the
beauty and the heat of it, but the hayfield was all a crackling dryness
and in the potato park beyond the biggings the shaws drooped red and
rusty already. Folk said there hadn't been such a drought since
eighty-three and Long Rob of the Mill said you couldn't blamethisone
on Gladstone, anyway, and everybody laughed except father. God knows
why.
Some said the North, up Aberdeen way, had had rain
enough, with Dee in spate and bairns hooking stranded salmon down in the
shallows, and that must be fine enough, but not a flick of the greeve
weather had come over the hills, the roads you walked down to Kinraddie
smithy or up to the Denburn were fair blistering in the heat, thick with
dust so that the motor-cars went shooming through them like kettles
under steam.
And serve them right, they'd little care for anybody, the
dirt that rode in motors, folk said; and one of them had nearly run over
wee Wat Strachan a fortnight before and had skirled to a stop right bang
in front of Peesie's Knapp, Wat had yowled like a cat with a jobe under
its tail and Chae had gone striding out and taken the motorist man by
the shoulder. AndWhat the
hell do you think you're up to?Chae
had asked. And the motorist, he was a fair toff with leggings and a hat
cocked over his eyes, he'd saidKeep
your damn children off the road in future.And
Chae had saidKeep a civil
tongue in your headand
had clouted the motorist man one in the ear and down he had flumped in
the stour and Mistress Strachan, her that was old Netherhill's daughter,
she'd gone tearing out skirlingMighty,
you brute, you've killed the man!and
Chae had just laughed and saidDamn
the fears!and off he'd
gone.
But Mistress Strachan had helped the toff up to his feet
and shook him and brushed him and apologised for Chae, real civil-like.
And all the thanks she got was that Chae was summonsed for assault at
Stonehaven and fined a pound, and came out of the courthouse saying
there was no justice under capitalism, a revolution would soon sweep
away its corrupted lackeys. And maybe it would, but faith! there was as
little sign of a revolution, said Long Rob of the Mill, as there was of
rain.
Maybe that was the reason for half the short tempers over
the Howe. You could go never a road but farmer billies were leaning over
the gates, glowering at the weather, and road-menders, poor stocks,
chapping away at their hillocks with the sweat fair dripping off them,
and the only folk that seemed to have a fine time were the shepherds up
in the hills. But they swore themselves dry when folk cried that to
them, the hill springs about a shepherd's herd would dry up or seep away
all in an hour and the sheep go straying and baying and driving the man
fair senseless till he'd led them weary miles to the nearest burn. So
everybody was fair snappy, staring up at the sky, and the ministers all
over the Howe were offering up prayers for rain in between the bit about
the Army and the Prince of Wales' rheumatics. But feint the good it did
for rain; and Long Rob of the Mill said he'd heard both Army and
rheumatics were much the same as before.
Maybe father would have done better to keep a civil
tongue in his head and stayed on in Echt, there was plenty of rain
there, a fine land for rain, Aberdeen, you'd see it by day and night
come drenching and wheeling over the Barmekin and the Hill of Fare in
the fine northern land. And mother would sigh, looking out from
Blawearie's windows,There's
no land like Aberdeen or folk so fine as them that bide by Don.
She'd bidden by Don all her life, mother, she'd been born
in Kildrummie, her father a ploughman there he'd got no more than
thirteen shillings a week and he'd had thirteen of a family, to work
things out in due ratio, maybe. But mother said they all got on fine,
she was never happier in her life than those days when she tramped
bare-footed the roads to the little school that nestled under the couthy
hills. And at nine she left the school and they packed a basket for her
and she bade her mother ta-ta and set out to her first fee, no shoes on
her feet even then, she hadn't worn shoes till she was twelve years old.
It hadn't been a real fee that first one, she'd done little more than
scare the crows from the fields of an old bit farmer and sleep in a
garret, but fine she'd liked it, she'd never forget the singing of the
winds in those fields when she was young or the daft crying of the lambs
she herded or the feel of the earth below her toes.Oh,
Chris, my lass, there are better things than your books or studies or
loving or bedding, there's the countryside your own, you its, in the
days when you're neither bairn nor woman.
So mother had worked and ran the parks those days, she
was blithe and sweet, you knew, you saw her against the sun as though
you peered far down a tunnel of the years. She stayed long on her second
fee, seven or eight years she was there till the day she met John
Guthrie at a ploughing-match at Pittodrie. And often once she'd tell of
that to Chris and Will, it was nothing grand of a match, the horses were
poor and the ploughing worse and a coarse, cold wind was soughing across
the rigs and half Jean Murdoch made up her mind to go home.
Then it was that it came the turn of a brave young childe
with a red head and the swackest legs you ever saw, his horses were
laced in ribbons, bonny and trig, and as soon as he began the drill you
saw he'd carry off the prize. And carry it off he did, young John
Guthrie, and not that alone. For as he rode from the park on one horse
he patted the back of the other and cried to Jean Murdoch with a glint
from his dour, sharp eyeJump
up if you like.And she
cried backI like fine!and
caught the horse by its mane and swung herself there till Guthrie's hand
caught her and set her steady on the back of the beast. So out from the
ploughing match at Pittodrie the two of them rode together, Jean sitting
upon the hair of her, gold it was and as long, and laughing up into the
dour, keen face that was Guthrie's.
So that was beginning of their lives together, she was
sweet and kind to him, but he mightn't touch her, his face would go
black with rage at her because of that sweetness that tempted his soul
to hell. Yet in two-three years they'd chaved and saved enough for gear
and furnishings, and were married at last, and syne Will was born, and
syne Chris herself was born, and the Guthries rented a farm in Echt,
Cairndhu it was, and sat themselves down there for many a year.
Winters or springs, summers or harvests, bristling or
sunning the sides of Barmekin, and life ploughed its rigs and drove its
teams and the dourness hardened, hard and cold, in the heart of Jean
Guthrie's man. But still the glint of her hair could rouse him, Chris
would hear him cry in agony at night as he went with her, mother's face
grew queer and questioning, her eyes far back on those Springs she might
never see again, dear and blithe they had been, she could kiss and hold
them still a moment alone with Chris or Will. Dod came, then Alec came,
and mother's fine face grew harder then. One night they heard her cry to
John GuthrieFour of a
family's fine; there'll be no more.And father thundered at her, that
way he hadFine?
We'll have what God in His mercy may send to us, woman. See you to that.
He wouldn't do anything against God's will, would father,
and sure as anything God followed up Alec with the twins, born seven
years later. Mother went about with a queer look on her face before they
came, she lost that sweet blitheness that was hers, and once, maybe she
was ill-like, she said to father when he spoke of arranging a doctor and
things,Don't worry about
that. No doubt you friend Jehovah will see to it all.Father
seemed to freeze up, then, his face grew black; he said never a word,
and Chris had wondered at that, seeing how mad he'd been when Will used
the word, thoughtless-like, only a week before.
For Will had heard the word in the kirk of Echt where the
elders sit with shaven chins and the offering bags between their knees,
waiting the sermon to end and to march with slow, sleeked steps up
through the pews, hearing the penny of penury clink shy-like against the
threepenny of affluence. And Will one Sunday, sitting close to sleep,
heard fall from the minister's lips the wordJehovah,and
treasured it for the bonniness and the beauty of it, waiting till he
might find a thing or a man or beast that would fit this word,
well-shaped and hantled and grand.
Now that was in summer, the time of fleas and glegs and
golochs in the fields, when stirks would start up from a drowsy
cud-chewing to a wild and feckless racing, the glegs biting through hair
and hide to the skin below the tail-rump. Echt was alive that year with
the thunder of herds, the crackle of breaking gates, the splash of
stirks in tarns, and last with the groans of Nell, the old horse of
Guthrie's, caught in a daft swither of the Highland steers and her belly
ripped like a rotten swede with the stroke of a great, curved horn.
Father saw the happening from high in a park where the
hay was cut and they set the swathes in coles, and he swore outDamn't
to hell!and started to run, fleetly as was his way, down to the
groaning shambles that was Nell. And as he ran he picked up a
scythe-blade, and as he neared to Nell he unhooked the blade and criedPoor
quean!and Nell groaned,
groaning blood and sweating, and turned away her neck, and father thrust
the scythe at her neck, sawing till she died.
So that was the end of Nell, father waited till the hay
was coled and then tramped into Aberdeen and bought a new horse, Bess,
riding her home at evening to the raptured starings of Will. And Will
took the horse and watered her and led her into the stall where Nell had
slept and gave to her hay and a handful of corn, and set to grooming
her, shoulder to heel, and her fine plump belly and the tail of her,
long and curled. And Bess stood eating her corn and Chris leant against
the door-jamb, her Latin Grammar held in her hand. So, working with
fine, strong strokes, and happy, Will groomed till he finished the tail,
and then as he lifted the brush to hit Bess on the flank that she might
move to the other side of the stall and he complete his grooming there
flashed in his mind the fine word he had treasured.Come
over, Jehovah!he cried,
smiting her roundly, and John Guthrie heard the word out across the yard
and came fleetly from the kitchen, wiping oatcake from his beard, and
fleetly across the yard into the stable he came--
But he should not have stricken Will as he did, he fell
below the feet of the horse and Bess turned her head, dripping corn, and
looked down at Will, with his face bloody, and then swished her tail and
stood still. And then John Guthrie dragged his son aside and paid no
more heed to him, but picked up brush and curry-comb and criedWhoa,
lass!and went on with
the grooming. Chris had cried and hidden her face but now she looked
again. Will was sitting up slowly, the blood on his face, and John
Guthrie speaking to him, not looking at him, grooming Bess.
And mind, my mannie, if I ever hear you again take
your Maker's name in vain, if I ever hear you use that word again, I'll
libb you. Mind that. Libb you like a lamb.
So Will hated father, he was sixteen years of age and
near a man, but father could still make him cry like a bairn. He would
whisper his hate to Chris as they lay in their beds at night in the loft
room high in the house and the harvest moon came sailing over the
Barmekin and the peewits wheeped above the lands of Echt. And Chris
would cover her ears and then listen, turning this cheek to the pillow
and that, she hated also and she didn't hate, father, the land, the life
of the land--oh, if only she knew!
For she'd met with books, she went into them to a magic
land far from Echt, out and away and south. And at school they wrote she
was the clever one and John Guthrie said she might have the education
she needed if she stuck to her lessons. In time she might come out as a
teacher then, and do him credit, that was fine of father the Guthrie
whispered in her, but the Murdoch laughed with a blithe, sweet face. But
more and more she turned from that laughter, resolute, loving to hear of
the things in the histories and geographies, seldom thinking them funny,
strange names and words like Too-long and Too-loose that convulsed the
classes. And at arithmetic also she was more than good, doing great sums
in her head so that always she was first in the class, they made her the
dux and they gave her prizes, four prizes in four years she had.
And one book she'd thought fair daft,Alice
in Wonderlandit was, and
there was no sense in it. And the second, it wasWhat
Katy did at School,and
she loved Katy and envied her and wished like Katy she lived at a
school, not tramping back in the spleiter of a winter night to help muck
the byre, with the smell of the sharn rising feuch! in her face. And the
third book wasRienzi, the
Last of the Roman Tribunes,and some bits were good and some fair
wearying. He had a right bonny wife, Rienzi had, and he was sleeping
with her, her white arms round his neck, when the Romans came to kill
him at last. And the fourth book, new given her before the twins came to
Cairndhu, wasThe Humours
of Scottish Lifeand God!
if that stite was fun she must have been born dull.
And these had been all her books that weren't
lesson-books, they were all the books in Cairndhu but for the Bibles
grandmother had left to them, one to Chris and one to Will, and in
Chris's one were set the wordsTo
my dawtie Chris: Trust in God and do the right.For
grandmother, she'd been father's mother, not mother's mother, had been
fell religious and every Sunday, rain or shine, had tramped to the kirk
at Echt, sitting below some four-five ministers there in all. And one
minister she'd never forgiven, for he'd said not GAWD, as a decent man
would, but GOHD, and it had been a mercy when he caught a bit cold, laid
up he was, and quickly passed away; and maybe it had been a judgment on
him.
So that was Chris and her reading and schooling, two
Chrisses there were that fought for her heart and tormented her. You
hated the land and the coarse speak of the folk and learning was brave
and fine one day and the next you'd waken with the peewits crying across
the hills, deep and deep, crying in the heart of you and the smell of
the earth in your face, almost you'd cry for that, the beauty of it and
the sweetness of the Scottish land and skies. You saw their faces in
firelight, father's and mother's and the neighbours', before the lamps
lit up, tired and kind, faces dear and close to you, you wanted the
words they'd known and used, forgotten in the far-off youngness of their
lives, Scots words to tell to your heart, how they wrung it and held it,
the toil of their days and unendingly their fight. And the next minute
that passed from you, you were English, back to the English words so
sharp and clean and true--for a while, for a while, till they slid so
smooth from your throat you knew they could never say anything that was
worth the saying at all.
But she sat for her bursary, won it, and began the
conjugating Latin verbs, the easy ones only at first,Amo,
amas, I love a lassand
then you laughed out loud when the Dominie said that and he criedWhist,
whistbut was real
pleased and smiled at you and you felt fine and tingly and above all the
rest of the queans who weren't learning Latin or anything else, they
were kitchen-maids in the bone. And then there was French, fair
difficult, the u was the worst; and an inspector creature came to Echt
and Chris near dropped through the schoolroom floor in shame when he
made her stand out in front of them all and sayo-oo,
o-oo, o-oo-butin.And he
saidPut your mouth as
though you were going to weesel, but don't do it, and say 'o-oo, o-oo,
o-oo.'And she said it,
she felt like a hen with a stone in its thrapple, after the inspector
creature, an Englishman he was with an awful belly on him and he
couldn't say whistle, only weesel.
And he went away down to the gig that was waiting to
drive him to the station he went, and he left his brave leather bag
behind, and the Dominie saw it and criedWhist,
Chrissie, run after the Inspector man with his bag.So
she did and caught him up at the foot of the playground, he growked at
her and saidHaw?and
then gave a bit laugh and saidHaw?again
and thenThenks.And
Chris went back to the Dominie's room, the Dominie was waiting for her
and he asked if the Inspector had given her anything, and Chris saidNo,and
the Dominie looked sore disappointed.
But everybody knew that the English were awful mean and
couldn't speak right and were cowards who captured Wallace and killed
him by treachery. But they'd been beaten right well at Bannockburn,
then, Edward the Second hadn't drawn rein till he was in Dunbar, and
ever after that the English were beaten in all the wars, except Flodden
and they won at Flodden by treachery again, just as it told inThe
Flowers of the Forest.Always
she wanted to cry when she heard that played and a lot of folk singing
it at a parish concert in Echt, for the sadness of it and the lads that
came back never again to their lasses among the stooks and the lasses
that never married but sat and stared down south to the English border
where their lads lay happed in blood and earth, with their bloodied
kilts and broken helmets. And she wrote an essay on that, telling all
how it happened, the Dominie said it was fine and that sometimes she
should try to write poetry: like Mrs. Hemans.
But then, just after writing the essay, the twins were
born and mother had as awful a time as she'd always had. She was sobbing
and ill when she went to bed, Chris boiled water in kettles for hours
and hours and then towels came down, towels clairted with stuff she
didn't dare look at, she washed them quick and hung them to dry. The
doctor came in with the evening, he stayed the whole night, and Dod and
Alec shivered and cried in their room till father went up and skelped
them right sore, they'd something to cry for then but they didn't dare.
And father came down the stairs again, fleet as ever, though he hadn't
been in bed for forty hours, and he closed the kitchen door and sat with
his head between his hands and groaned and said he was a miserable
sinner, God forgive him the lusts of the flesh, something about the
bonny hair of her also he said and then more about lust, but he hadn't
intended Chris to hear for he looked up and saw her looking at him and
he raged at her, telling her to spread a table with breakfast for the
doctor--through in the parlour there, and boil
him an egg.
And then mother began to scream, the doctor called down
the stairsMan, it's a
fair tough case, I doubt I'll need your help,and
at that father turned grey as a sheet and covered his face again and
criedI dare not, I dare
not!Then the doctor
childe called him againGuthrie
man, do you hear me?and
father jumped up in a rage and criedDamn't
to hell, I'm not deaf!and
ran up the stairs, fleet as ever, and then the door in the room closed
fast and Chris could hear no more.
Not that she wanted to hear, she felt real ill herself,
cooking the egg and laying a meal in the parlour with a white cloth
spread above the green plush cloth and all the furniture dark and
shadowed and listening. Then Will came down the stair, he couldn't sleep
because of mother, they sat together and Will said the old man was a
fair beast and mother shouldn't be having a baby, she was far too old
for that. And Chris stared at him with horrified imaginings in her mind,
she hadn't known better then, the English bit of her went sick, she
whisperedWhat has father
to do with it?And Will
stared back at her, shamed-faced,Don't
you know? What's a bull to do with a calf, you fool?
But then they heard an awful scream that made them leap
to their feet, it was as though mother were being torn and torn in the
teeth of beasts and couldn't thole it longer; and then a little screech
like a young pig made followed that scream and they tried not to hear
more of the sounds above them. Chris boiled the egg over and over till
it was as hard as iron. And then mother screamed again, Oh God! your
heart stopped to hear it, and that was when the second twin came.
Then quietness followed, they heard the doctor coming
down the stairs, the morning was close, it hung scared beyond the
stilled parks and listened and waited. But the doctor criedHot
water, jugs of it, pour me a basin of water, Chris, and put plenty of
soap near by it.She
criedAy, doctor,to
that but she cried in a whisper, he didn't hear and was fell angry.D'you
hear me?And Will said to
him, calling up the stair,Ay,
doctor, only she's feared,and
the doctor saidShe'll
have a damned sight more to fear when she's having a bairn of her own.
Pour out the water, quick!So
they poured it and went through to the parlour while the doctor passed
them with his hands held away from them, and the smell of his hands was
a horror that haunted Chris for a day and a night.
That was the coming of the twins at Cairndhu, there'd
been barely room for them all before that time, now they'd have to live
like tinks. But it was a fell good farm, John Guthrie loath to part with
it though his lease was near its end, and when mother came down from her
bed in a fortnight's time with the shine of the gold still in the sweet
hair of her and her eyes clear eyes again, he raged and swore when she
spoke to him.More rooms?
What more room do we want than we have? Do you think we're gentry?he
cried, and went on again to tell that when he was a bairn in Pittodrie
his mother had nine bairns all at home, nought but a butt and ben they
had and their father nought but a plough-childe. But fine they'd
managed, God-fearing and decent all he'd made them, and if one of Jean
Murdoch's bairns were half as good the shame need never redden the face
of her. And mother looked at him with the little smile on her lips,Well,
well, we're to bide on here, then?and
father shot out his beard at her and criedAy,
that we are, content yourself.
But the very next day he was driving back from the mart,
old Bob in the cart, when round a corner below the Barmekin came a
motor-car spitting and barking like a tink dog in distemper. Old Bob had
made a jump and near landed the cart in the ditch and then stood like a
rock, so feared he wouldn't move a step, the cart jammed fast across the
road. And as father tried to haul the thrawn beast to the side a
creature of a woman with her face all clamjamfried with paint and powder
and dirt, she thrust her bit head out from the window of the car and
criedYou're causing an
obstruction, my man.And
John Guthrie roused like a lion:I'm
not your man, thank God, for if I was I'd have your face scraped with a
clart and then a scavenger wash it well.The
woman nearly burst with rage at that, she fell back in the car and saidYou've
not heard the last of this. Take note of his name-plate, James, d'you
hear?And the shover
looked out, fair shamed he looked, and keeked at the name-plate
underneath Bob's shelvin, and quaveredYes,
madam,and they turned
about and drove off. That was the way to deal with dirt like the gentry,
but when father applied for his lease again he was told he couldn't have
it.
So he took a look at thePeople's
Journaland got into his
fine best suit, Chris shook the moth-balls from it and found him his
collar and the broad white front to cover his working sark; and John
Guthrie tramped into Aberdeen and took a train to Banchory to look at a
small place there. But the rent was awful high and he saw that nearly
all the district was land of the large-like farm, he'd be squeezed to
death and he'd stand no chance. It was fine land though, that nearly
shook him, fine it looked and your hands they itched to be at it; but
the agent called himGuthrie,and
he fired up at the agent:Who
the hell are you Guthrie-ing? Mister Guthrie to you.And
the agent looked at him and turned right white about the gills and then
gave a bit laugh and saidAh
well, Mr. Guthrie, I'm afraid you wouldn't suit us.And
John Guthrie saidIt's
your place that doesn't suit me, let me tell you, you wee dowp-licking
clerk.Poor he might be
but the creature wasn't yet clecked that might put on its airs with him,
John Guthrie.
So back he came and began his searchings again. And the
third day out he came back from far in the south. He'd taken a place,
Blawearie, in Kinraddie of the Mearns.
Wild weather it was that January and the night on the
Slug road smoring with sleet when John Guthrie crossed his family and
gear from Aberdeen into the Mearns. Twice the great carts set with their
shelvins that rustled still stray binder-twine from September's
harvest-home laired in drifts before the ascent of the Slug faced the
reluctant horses. Darkness came down like a wet, wet blanket, weariness
below it and the crying of the twins to vex John Guthrie. Mother called
him from her nook in the leading cart, there where she sat with now one
twin at the breast and now another, and her skin bare and cold and white
and a strand of her rust-gold hair draped down from the darkness about
her face into the light of the swinging lantern:We'd
better loosen up at Portlethen and not try the Slug this night.
But father swore at thatDamn't
to hell, do you think I'm made of silver to put up the night at
Portlethen?and mother
sighed and held off the wee twin, Robert, and the milk dripped creamily
from the soft, sweet lips of him:No,
we're not made of silver, but maybe we'll lair again and all die of the
night.
Maybe he feared that himself, John Guthrie, his rage was
his worriment with the night, but he'd no time to answer her for a great
bellowing arose in the road by the winding scurry of peat-moss that
lined the dying light of the moon. The cattle had bunched there, tails
to the wind, refusing the Slug and the sting of the sleet, little Dod
was wailing and crying at the beasts, Polled Angus and Shorthorns and
half-bred Highland stirks who had fattened and feted and loved their
life in the haughs of Echt, south there across the uncouthy hills was a
world cold and unchancy.
But John Guthrie dropped the tarpaulin edge that shielded
his wife and the twins and the furnishings of the best room and gear
good and plentiful enough; and swiftly he ran past the head of the horse
till he came to where the cattle bunched. And he swung Dod into the
ditch with one swipe of his hand and criedHave
you got no sense, you brat?and
uncoiled from his hand the length of hide that served him as a whip. Its
crackle snarled down through the sting of the sleet, the hair rose in
long serrations across the backs of the cattle, and one in a minute, a
little Highland steer it was, mooed and ran forward and fell to a trot,
and the rest followed after, slipping and sprawling with their cloven
hooves, the reek of their dung sharp and bitter in the sleet smore of
the night. Ahead Alec saw them coming and turned himself about again,
and fell to a trot, leading up the Slug to Mearns and the south.
So, creaking and creaking, and the shelvins skirling
under the weight of their loads, they passed that danger point, the
carts plodded into motion again, the first with its hooded light and
house gear and mother suckling the twins. In the next, Clyde's cart, the
seed was loaded, potato and corn and barley, and bags of tools and
implements, and graips and forks fast tied with esparto twine and two
fine ploughs and a driller, and dairy things and a turnip machine with
teeth that cut as a guillotine cuts. Head down to the wind and her reins
loose and her bonny coat all mottled with sleet went Clyde, the load a
nothing to her, fine and clean and sonsy she marched, following John
Guthrie's cart with no other thing or soul to guide but that ever and
now, in this half-mile and that she heard his voice cry cheerilyFine,
Clyde, fine. Come on then, lass.
Chris and Will with the last cart, sixteen Will and
fifteen Chris, the road wound up and up, straight and unwavering, and
sometimes they hiddled in the lithe and the sleet sang past to left and
right, white and glowing in the darkness. And sometimes they clambered
down from the shelvins above the laboured drag of old Bob and ran beside
him, one either side, and stamped for warmth in their feet, and saw the
whin bushes climb black the white hills beside them and far and away the
blink of lights across the moors where folk lay happed and warm. But
then the upwards road would swerve, right or left, into this steep ledge
or that, and the wind would be at them again and they'd gasp, climbing
back to the shelvins, Will with freezing feet and hands and the batter
of the sleet like needles in his face, Chris in worse case, colder and
colder at every turn, her body numb and unhappy, knees and thighs and
stomach and breast, her breasts ached and ached so that nearly she wept.
But of that she told nothing, she fell to a drowse through the cold, and
a strange dream came to her as they plodded up through the ancient
hills.
For out of the night ahead of them came running a man,
father didn't see him or heed to him, though old Bob in the dream that
was Chris's snorted and shied. And as he came he wrung his hands, he was
mad and singing, a foreign creature, black-bearded, half-naked he was;
and he cried in the GreekThe
ships of Pytheas! The ships of Pytheas!and
went by into the smore of the sleet-storm on the Grampian hills, Chris
never saw him again, queer dreaming that was. For her eyes were wide
open, she rubbed them with never a need of that, if she hadn't been
dreaming she must have been daft. They'd cleared the Slug, below was
Stonehaven and the Mearns, and far beyond that, miles through the Howe,
the twinkling point of light that shone from the flagstaff of Kinraddie.
So that was their coming to Blawearie, fell wearied all
of them were the little of the night that was left them, and slept late
into the next morning, coming cold and drizzly up from the sea by Bervie.
All the darkness they heard that sea, a shoom-shoom that moaned by the
cliffs of lone Kinneff. Not that John Guthrie listened to such dirt of
sounds, but Chris and Will did, in the room where they'd made their
shake-down beds. In the strangeness and cold and the sighing of that
far-off water Chris could find no sleep till Will whisperedLet's
sleep together.So then
they did, oxtering one the other till they were real warm. But at the
first keek of day Will slipped back to the blankets of his own bed, he
was feared what father would say if he found them lying like that. Chris
thought of that angrily, puzzled and angry, the English Chris as sleep
came on her again. Was it likely a brother and a sister would do
anything if they slept together? And besides, she didn't know how.
But Will back in his bed had hardly a minute to get warm
or a wink of sleep when John Guthrie was up and about the place, rousing
them all, and the twins were wakened and crying for the breast, and Dod
and Alec trying to light the fire. Father swore up and down the strange
Blawearie stairs, chapping from door to door, weren't they sick with
shame lying stinking in bed and half the day gone? Then out he went, the
house quietened down as he banged the door, and he cried back that he
was off up the brae to look at the loch in Blawearie moor--Get
out and get on with the breakfast and get your work done ere I come back
else I'll warm your lugs for you.
And faith, it was queer that the notion took father to
climb the brae at that hour. For as he went up through the broom he
heard a shot, did John Guthrie, cracking the morning so dark and
iron-like, and he stood astounded, was not Blawearie his and he the
tenant of it? And rage took him and he ceased to dander. Up through the
hill among the dead broom he sped like a hare and burst in sight of the
loch, grass-fringed and chill then under the winter morning, with a
sailing of wild geese above it, going out east to the sea. All but one
winged east in burnished strokes under the steel-grey sky, but that one
loped and swooped and stroked the air with burnished pinions, and John
Guthrie saw the feathers drift down from it, it gave a wild cry like a
bairn smored at night below the blankets, and down it plonked on the
mere of the loch, not ten yards from where the man with the gun was
standing.
So John Guthrie he went cannily across the grass to this
billy in the brave leggings and with the red face on him, and who was he
standing so sure-like on Guthrie's land? He gave a bit jump, hearing
Guthrie come, and then he swithered a laugh inside the foolish face of
him, but John Guthrie didn't laugh. Instead, he whispered, quiet-like,Ay,
man, you're been shooting,and
the creature saidAy, just
that.And John Guthrie saidAy,
you'll be a bit poacher, then?and
the billy saidNo, I'll
not be that. I'm Maitland, the foreman at Mains,and
John Guthrie whisperedYou
may be the archangel Gabriel, but you're not to shoot on MY land, d'you
hear?
The Standing Stones reared up above the two, marled and
white-edged with snow they were, and a wind came blowing fit to freeze
the chilblains on a brass monkey as they stood and glowered one at the
other. Then Maitland mutteredEllison
at Mains will see about this,and
made off for all the world as if he feared the crack of a kick in the
dowp of him. And right fairly there, midmost his brave breeks John
Guthrie might well have kicked but that he restrained himself, cannily,
for the goose was still lying by the side of the loch, jerking and
slobbering blood through its beak; and it looked at him with terror in
its slate-grey eyes and he waited, canny still, till Maitland was out of
sight, syne he wrung the neck of the bird and took it down to Blawearie.
And he told them all of the meeting with Maitland, and if ever they
heard a shot on the land they were to run to him at once and tell him,
he'd deal with any damn poacher--Jew, Gentile, or the Prince of Wales
himself.
So that was how father made first acquaintance with the
Standing Stones, and he didn't like them, for one evening in Spring
after a day's ploughing and tired a bit maybe, he went up on a dander
through the brae to the loch and found Chris lying there, just as now
she lay in the summer heat. Tired though he was he came to her side
right fleet enough, his shoulders straight and his frightening eyes on
her, she had no time to close the story-book she read and he snatched it
up and looked at it and criedDirt!
You've more need to be down in the house helping your mother wash out
the hippens.And he
glanced with a louring eye at the Standing Stones and then Chris had
thought a foolish thing, that he kind of shivered, as though he were
feared, him that was feared at nothing dead or alive, gentry or common.
But maybe the shiver came from his fleetness caught in the bite of the
cold Spring air, he stood looking at the Stones a minute and said they
were coarse, foul things, the folk that raised them were burning in
hell, skin-clad savages with never a skin to guard them now. And Chris
had better get down to her work, had she heard any shooting that
evening?
But Chris saidNo,and
neither she had, nor any other evening till John Guthrie himself got a
gun, a second-hand thing he picked up in Stonehaven, a muzzle-loader it
was, and as he went by the Mill on the way to Blawearie Long Rob came
out and saw it and criedAy,
man, I didn't mind you were a veteran of the'45.
And father criedLosh,
Rob, were you cheating folk at your Mill even then?for
sometimes he could take a bit joke, except with his family. So home he
brought the old gun and loaded it up with pellets and stuffed in wadding
with a ram-rod; and by night he would go cannily out in the gloaming,
and shoot here a rabbit and there a hare, no other soul must handle the
gun but himself. Nor did any try till that day he went off to the mart
at Laurencekirk and then Will took down the gun and laughed at the thing
and loaded it and went out and shot at a mark, a herring box on the top
of a post, till he was fell near perfect. But he wished he hadn't, for
father came home and counted his pellets that evening and went fair mad
with rage till mother grew sick of the subject and criedHold
your whist, you and your gun, what harm was in Will that he used it?
Father had been sitting at the neuk of the fire when he
heard that, but he got to his feet like a cat then, looking at Will so
that the blood flowed cold in Chris's veins. Then he said, in the
quiet-like voice that was his when he was going to leather them,Come
out to the barn with me, Will.Mother
laughed that strange, blithe laugh that had come out of the Springs of
Kildrummie with her, kind and queer in a breath it was, looking
pityingly at Will. But Chris burned with shame because of him, he was
over-old for that, she cried outFather,
you can't!
As well have cried to the tides at Kinneff to keep away
from the land, father was fair roused by then, he whisperedBe
quiet, quean, else I'll take you as well.And
up to the barn he went with Will and took down his breeks, nearly
seventeen though he was, and leathered him till the weals stood blue
across his haunches; and that night Will could hardly sleep for the pain
of it, sobbing into his pillow, till Chris slipped into his bed and took
him into her arms and held him and cuddled him and put out her hand
below his shirt on to his body and made gentle her fingers to pass and
repass across the torn flesh of his body, soothing him, and he stopped
from crying after a while and fell asleep, holding to her, strange it
seemed then for she knew him bigger and older than she was, and somehow
skin and hair and body stranger than once they had been, as though they
were no longer children.
She minded then the stories of Marget Strachan, and felt
herself in the darkness blush for shame and then think of them still
more and lie awake, seeing out of the window as it wore on to midnight a
lowe in mauve and gold that crept and slipt and wavered upon the sky,
and that was the lowe of the night-time whin-burning up on the
Grampians; and next morning she was almost too sleepy to stiter into her
clothes and set out across the fields to the station and the College
train for Duncairn.
For to the College she'd been sent and found it strange
enough after the high classes in Echt, a little ugly place it was below
Duncairn Station, ugly as sin and nearly as proud, said the Chris that
was Murdoch, Chris of the land. Inside the main building of it was
carved the head of a beast like a calf with colic, but they swore the
creature was a wolf on a shield, whatever the brute might be doing
there.
Every week or so the drawing master, old Mr. Kinloch,
marched out this class or that to the playground in front of the
wolf-beast; and down they'd all get on the chair they'd brought and try
and draw the beast. Right fond of the gentry was Kinloch, if you wore a
fine frock and your hair was well brushed and your father well to the
fore he'd sit beside you and stroke your arm and speak in a slow
sing-song that made everybody laugh behind his back.Noooooooooooo,
that's not quate raight,he
would flute,More
like the head of one of Christie's faaaaaaaather's pigs than a
heraaaaaaaaaaldic animal, I'm afraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaid.
So he loved the gentry, did Mr. Kinloch, and God knows he
was no exception among the masters there. For the most of them were sons
and daughters of poor bit crofters and fishers themselves, up with the
gentry they felt safe and unfrightened, far from that woesome pit of
brose and bree and sheetless beds in which they had been reared. So
right condescending they were with Chris, daughter of a farmer of no
account, not that she cared, she was douce and sensible she told
herself. And hadn't father said that in the sight of God an honest man
was as good as any school-teacher and generally a damned sight better?
But it vexed you a bit all the same that a creature like
the Fordyce girl should be cuddled by Mr. Kinloch when she'd a face like
a broken brose-cap and a voice like a nail on a slate. And but little
cuddling her drawing warranted, her father's silver had more to do with
it, not that Chris herself could draw like an artist, Latin and French
and Greek and history were the things in which she shone. And the
English master set their class an essay onDeaths
of the Greatand her
essay was so good that he was forced to read it aloud to all the class,
and the Fordyce quean had snickered and sniffed, so mad she was with
jealousy.
Mr. Murgetson was the English master there, not that he
was English himself, he came from Argyll and spoke with a funny whine,
the Highland whine, and the boys swore he had hair growing up between
his toes like a Highland cow, and when they'd see him coming down a
corridor they'd push their heads round a corner and cryMoo!like
a lot of cattle. He'd fly in an awful rage at that, and once when they'd
done it he came into the class where Chris was waiting her lesson and he
stood and swore, right out and horrible, and gripped a black ruler in
his hands and glared round as if he meant to murder a body. And maybe he
would if the French teacher, her that was bonny and brave, hadn't come
simpering into the room, and then he lowered the ruler and grunted and
curled up his lip and saidEh?
Canaille?and the French
teacher she simpered some more and saidMay
swee.
So that was the college place at Duncairn, two Chrisses
went there each morning, and one was right douce and studious and the
other sat back and laughed a canny laugh at the antics of the teachers
and minded Blawearie brae and the champ of horses and the smell of dung
and her father's brown, grained hands till she was sick to be home
again. But she made friends with young Marget Strachan, Chae Strachan's
daughter, she was slim and sweet and fair, fine to know, though she
spoke about things that seemed awful at first and then weren't awful at
all and you wanted to hear more and Marget would laugh and say it was
Chae that had told her. Always as Chae she spoke of him and that was an
unco-like thing to do of your father, but maybe it was because he was
socialist and thought that Rich and Poor should be Equal. And what was
the sense of believing that and then sending his daughter to educate
herself and herself become one of the Rich?
But Marget cried that wasn't what Chae intended, she was
to learn and be ready for the Revolution that was some day coming. And
if come it never did she wasn't to seek out riches anyway, she was off
to be trained as a doctor, Chae said that life came out of women through
tunnels of pain and if God had planned women for anything else but the
bearing of children it was surely the saving of them.
And Marget's eyes, that were blue and so deep they minded
you of a well you peeped into, they'd grow deeper and darker and her
sweet face grow so solemn Chris felt solemn herself. But that would be
only a minute, the next and Marget was laughing and fleering, trying to
shock her, telling of men and women, what fools they were below their
clothes; and how children came and how you should have them; and the
things that Chae had seen in the huts of the blacks in Africa. And she
told of a place where the bodies of men lay salted and white in great
stone vats till the doctors needed to cut them up, the bodies of paupers
they were--so take care you don't die as a
pauper, Chris, for I'd hate some day if I rang a bell and they brought
me up out of the vat your naked body, old and shrivelled and frosted
with salt, and I looked in your dead, queer face, standing there with
the scalpel held in my hand, and cried 'But this is Chris Guthrie!'
That was awful, Chris felt sick and sick and stopped
midway the shining path that led through the fields to Peesie's Knapp
that evening in March. Clean and keen and wild and clear, the evening
ploughed land's smell up in your nose and your mouth when you opened it,
for Netherhill's teams had been out in that park all day, queer and
lovely and dear the smell Chris noted.
And something else she saw, looking at Marget, sick at
the thought of her dead body brought to Marget. And that thing was a
vein that beat in Marget's throat, a little blue gathering where the
blood beat past in slow, quiet strokes, it would never do that when one
was dead and still under grass, down in the earth that smelt so fine and
you'd never smell; or cased in the icy darkness of a vat, seeing never
again the lowe of burning whins or hearing the North Sea thunder beyond
the hills, the thunder of it breaking through a morning mist, the right
things that might not last and so soon went by. And they only were real
and true, beyond them was nought you might ever attain but a weary dream
and that last dark silence--Oh, only a fool loved being alive!
But Marget threw her arms around her when she said that,
and kissed her with red, kind lips, so red they were that they looked
like haws, and said there were lovely things in the world, lovely that
didn't endure, and the lovelier for that.Wait
till you find yourself in the arms of your lad, in the harvest time
it'll be with the stooks round about you, and he'll stop from
joking--they do, you know, and that's just when their blood-pressure
alters--and he'll take you like this--wait, there's not a body to see
us!--and hold you like this, with his hands held so, and kiss you like
this!
It was over in a moment, quick and shameful, fine for all
that, tingling and strange and shameful by turns. Long after she parted
with Marget that evening she turned and stared down at Peesie's Knapp
and blushed again; and suddenly she was seeing them all at Blawearie as
though they were strangers naked out of the sea, she felt ill every time
she looked at father and mother. But that passed in a day or so, for
nothing endures.
Not a thing, though you're over-young to go thinking of
that, you've your lessons and studies, the English Chris, and living and
eating and sleeping that other Chris that stretches your toes for you in
the dark of the night and whispers a drowsyI'm
you.But you might not
stay from the thinking when all in a day, Marget, grown part of your
life, came waving to you as you neared the Knapp with the news she was
off to Aberdeen to live with an auntie there--it's
a better place for a scholar, Chae says, and I'll be trained all the
sooner.
And three days later Chae Strachan and Chris drove down
to the station with her, and saw her off at the platform, and she waved
at them, bonny and young, Chae looked as numb as Chris felt. He gave her
a lift from the station, did Chae, and on the road he spoke but once, to
himself it seemed, not Chris:Ay,
Marget lass, you'll do fine, if you keep the lads at bay from kissing
the bonny breast of you.
So that was your Marget gone, there seemed not a soul in
Kinraddie that could take her place, the servant queans of an age with
Chris were no more than gowks and gomerils a-screech round the barn of
the Mains at night with the ploughmen snickering behind them. And John
Guthrie had as little use for them as Marget herself.Friends?
Stick to your lessons and let's see you make a name for yourself, you've
no time for friends.
Mother looked up at that, friendly-like, not feared of
him at all, she was never feared.Take
care her head doesn't soften with lessons and dirt, learning in books it
was sent the wee red daftie at Cuddiestoun clean skite, they say.And
father poked out his beard at her.Say?
Would you rather see her skite with book-learning or skite with--and
then he stopped and began to rage at Dod and Alec that were making a
noise in the kitchen corner. But Chris, a-pore above her books in the
glow of the paraffin lamp, heeding to Cæsar's coming in Gaul and the
stour the creature raised there, knew right well what father had thought
to speak of--lustwas
the word he'd wanted, perhaps. And she turned a page with the weary
Cæsar man and thought of the wild career the daftie Andy had led one day
in the roads and woods of Kinraddie.
Marget had barely gone when the thing came off, it was
fair the speak of the place that happening early in April. The sowing
time was at hand, John Guthrie put down two parks with grass and corn,
swinging hand from hand as he walked and sowed and Will carried the corn
across to him from the sacks that lined the rigs. Chris herself would
help of an early morning when the dew had lifted quick, it was blithe
and lightsome in the caller air with the whistle of the blackbirds in
Blawearie's trees and the glint of the sea across the Howe and the wind
blowing up the braes with a fresh, wild smell that caught you and made
you gasp. So silent the world with the sun just peeking above the
horizon those hours that you'd hear, clear and bright as though he paced
the next field, the ringing steps of Chae Strachan--far down, a shadow
and a sunlit dot, sowing his parks behind the steadings of Peesie's
Knapp.
There were larks coming over that morning, Chris minded,
whistling and trilling dark and unseen against the blaze of the sun, now
one lark now another, till the sweetness of the trilling dizzied you and
you stumbled with heavy pails corn-laden, and father swore at you over
the red beard of himDamn't
to hell, are you fair a fool, you quean?
That morning it was that the daftie Andy stole out of
Cuddiestoun and started his scandalous rampage through Kinraddie. Long
Rob of the Mill was to say he'd once had a horse that would do that kind
of thing in the early Spring, leap dykes and ditches and every mortal
thing it would if it heard a douce little mare go by. Gelding though it
was, the horse would do that, and what more was Andy, poor devil, than a
gelding? Not that Mistress Ellison had thought him that--faith no!
It was said she ran so fast after her meeting with the
daftie she found herself down two stone in weight. The coarse creature
chased her nearly in sight of the Mains and then scrabbled away into the
rough ground, beyond the turnpike.
She'd been out fell early for her, Mistress Ellison, and
was just holding along the road a bit walk to Fordoun when out of some
bushes Andy jumped, his ramshackle face all swithering and his eyes all
hot and wet. She thought at first he was hurted and then she saw he was
trying to laugh, he tore at her frock and criedYou
come!She nearly fainted,
but didn't, her umbrella was in her hand, she broke it over the daftie's
head and then turned and ran, he went louping after her along the road,
like a great monkey he leapt, crying terrible things to her. When sight
of the Mains put an end to that chase he must have hung back in the
hills for an hour or so and seen Mistress Munro, the futret, go sleeking
down the paths to the Mains and Peesie's Knapp and Blawearie, asking
sharp as you like, as though she blamed every soul but herself,Have
you seen that creature Andy?
While she was up Blawearie way he must have made his road
back across the hills, high up above the Cuddiestoun, till Upperhill
came in sight. For later one of the ploughmen thought he'd seen the
creature, shambling up against the skyline, picking a great bunch of
sourocks and eating them. Then he got into the Upperhill wood and waited
there, and it was through the wood at nine o'clock that Maggie Jean
Gordon would hold her way to the station--close and thick larch wood
with a path through it, where the light fell hardly at all and the cones
crunched and rotted underfoot and sometimes a green barrier of whin
crept up a wood ditch and looked out at you, and in the winter days the
deer came down from the Grampians and sheltered there.
But in the April weather there were no deer to fright
Maggie Jean, even the daftie didn't frighten her. He'd been waiting high
in the wood before he took her, but maybe before that he ran alongside
the path she was taking, keeping hidden from view of the lass, for she
heard a little crackle rise now and then, she was to remember, and
wondered that the squirrels were out so early. Gordon she was, none the
better for that it might be, but a blithe little thing, thin body and
bonny brown hair, straight to walk and straight to look, and you liked
the laugh of her.
So through the wood and right into the hands of the
daftie she went and when he lifted her in his hands she was frightened
not even then, not even when he bore her far back into the wood, the
broom-branches whipped their faces and the wet of the dew sprayed on
them, coming into a little space, broom-surrounded, where the sun
reached down a long finger into the dimness.
She stood up and shook herself when he set her down, and
told him she couldn't play any longer, she must really hurry else she'd
miss her train. But he paid no heed, crouching on one knee he turned his
head this way and that, jerking round and about, listening and
listening, so that Maggie Jean listened as well and heard the ploughmen
cry to their horses and her mother at that moment calling the hens to
feed--Tickie-ae! Tickie-ae!--Well, I must go,she
told him and caught her bag in her hand and hadn't moved a step when he
had her in his hands again; and after a minute or so, though she wasn't
frightened even then, she didn't like him, and please she'd have to go.
And she looked up at him, pushing him away, his mad, awful head, he
began to purr like a great, wild cat, awful it must have been to see him
and hear him.
And God alone knows the next thing he'd have done but
that then, for it was never such a morning before for that bright
clearness, far away down and across the fields a man began to sing,
distant but very clear, with a blithe lilt in the voice of him. And he
broke off and whistled the song and then he sang it again:
Bonny wee thing,
Canty wee thing,
Lovely wee thing,
Wert thou mine
I would clasp thee
In my bosom
Lest my jewel
I should tyne!
And at that, crouching and listening, the daftie took his
hands from Maggie Jean and began to sing the song himself; and he took
her in his arms again, but gentle, folding her as though she were a cat,
and he set her on her feet and tugged straight the bit frock she wore;
and stood up beside her and took her hand and guided her back to the
path through the larch wood. And she went on and left him and once she
looked back and saw him glowering after her; and because she saw he was
weeping she ran back to him, kind thing, and patted his hand and saidDon't
cry!and she saw his face
like that of a tormented beast and went on again, down to the station.
And only when she came home that night did she tell the story of her
meeting with Cuddiestoun's Andy.
But as the day wore on and Long Rob, working in that orra
field above the Mill, still sang and sweated and swore at his horses,
the singing must have drawn the Andy creature down from the larch wood,
by hedges creeping and slipping from the sight of the Upperhill men in
the parks. And once Rob raised his head and thought he saw a moving
shadow in a ditch that bounded the orra ground. But he thought it a dog
and just heaved a stone or so in case it was some beast in heat or on
chicken-killing. The shadow yelped and snarled at that, but was gone
from the ditch when Rob picked up another stone; so he went on with his
work; and the daftie, tearing along the Kinraddie road out towards the
Bridge End, with the blood red trickling down his woesome face, was all
unseen by him.
But right at the corner, close where the road jerked
round by Pooty's place, he nearly ran full tilt into Chris herself,
coming up from Auchinblae she was with the messages her mother had sent
her on, her basket over her arm and her mind far off with the Latin
verbs in-are.He
slavered at her, running towards her, and she screamed, though she
wasn't over-frightened; and then she threw the basket clean at his head
and made for Pooty's. Pooty himself was sitting just inside the door
when she reached it, the louping beast was close behind, she heard the
pant of his breath and was to wonder often enough in later times over
that coolness that came on her then. For she ran fleet as a bird inside
the door and banged it right in the daftie's face and dropped the bar
and watched the planks bulge and crack as outside the body of the madman
was flung against them again and again.
Pooty mouthed and stuttered at her in the dimness, but he
grew real brave when she made him understand, he sharpened two of his
sutor's knives and prowled trembling from window to window--the daftie
left them untouched. Then Chris took a keek from one window and saw him
again: he was raking about in the basket she'd thrown at his head, he
made the parcels dirl on the road till he found a great bar of soap, and
then he began to eat that, feuch! laughing and yammering all to himself,
and running back to throw himself against the door of Pooty's again, the
foam burst yellow through the beard of him as he still ate and ate at
the soap.
But he soon grew thirsty and went down to the burn, Pooty
and Chris stood watching him, and then it was that Cuddiestoun himself
came ben the road. He sighted Andy and cried out to him, and Andy leapt
the burn and was off, and behind him went Munro clatter-clang, and out
of sight they vanished down the road to Bridge End. Chris unbarred the
door in spite of Pooty's stutterings and went and repacked the bit
basket, and everything was there except the soap; and that was down poor
Andy's throat.
Feint the thing else he'd to eat that day, he was near
the end of his tether; for though he ran like a hare and Cuddiestoun
behind him was more than coarse in the legs, yet luck would have it that
Mutch of Bridge End was just guiding his team across the road to start
harrowing his yavil park when the two runners came in sight, real
daft-like both of them, Andy running near double, soap and madness
a-foam on his face, Cuddiestoun bellowing behind.
So Mutch slowed down his team and called out to Andy,Ay,
man, you mustn't run near as fast as that,and
when Andy was opposite threw out a foot and tripped him up, and down in
the stour went Andy, and Cuddiestoun was on top of him in a minute,
bashing in the face of him, but Alec Mutch just stood and looked on,
maybe working his meikle ears a bit, it was no concern of his. The
daftie's hands went up to his face as the bashings came and then
Cuddiestoun gripped him in a tender private part, he screamed and went
slack, like a sack in Cuddiestoun's hands.
And that was the end of Andy's ploy, for back to the
Cuddiestoun he was driven and they said Mistress Munro took down his
breeks and leathered him sore; but you never know the lies they tell,
for others said it was Cuddiestoun himself she leathered, him having let
the daftie out of the house that morning to scandalize her name with his
coarse on-goings. But he'd no chance more of them, poor stock, next day
the asylum officials came out and took him away in a gig, his hands fast
tied behind his back; and that was the last they ever saw of Andy in
Kinraddie.
Father raged when he heard the story from Chris, queer
raging it was, he took her out to the barn and heard the story and his
eyes slipped up and down her dress as she spoke, she felt sickened and
queer.He shamed you then?he
whispered; and Chris shook her head and at that father seemed to go limp
and his eyes grew dull.Ah
well, it's the kind of thing that would happen in a godless parish like
this. It can hardly happen again with the Reverend Gibbon in charge.
Three minister creatures came down to Kinraddie to try
for its empty pulpit. The first preached early in March, a pernickety
thing as ever you saw, not over five feet in height, or he didn't look
more. He wore a brave gown with a purple hood on it, like a Catholic
creature, and jerked and pranced round the pulpit like a snipe with the
staggers, working himself up right sore aboutLatter
Day Doubt in the Kirk of Scotland.But
Kinraddie had never a doubt ofhim,and
Chris coming out of the kirk with Will and father heard Chae Strachan
say he'd rather sit under a clucking hen thanthatfor
a minister. The second to try was an old bit man from Banff, shaking and
old, and some said he'd be best, he'd have quietened down at his age,
not aye on the look for a bigger kirk and a bigger stipend. For if
there's a body on earth that would skin a tink for his sark and preach
for a pension in purgatory it's an Auld Kirk minister.
But the poor old brute from Banff seemed fair sucked dry.
He'd spent years in the writing of books and things, the spunk of him
had trickled out into his pen, forbye that he read his sermon; and that
fair settled his hash to begin with.
So hardly a soul paid heed to his reading, except Chris
and her father, she thought it fine; for he told of the long dead beasts
of the Scottish land in the times when jungle flowered its forests
across the Howe and a red sun rose on the steaming earth that the feet
of man had still to tread; and he pictured the dark, slow tribes that
came drifting across the low lands of the northern seas, the great bear
watched them come, and they hunted and fished and loved and died, God's
children in the morn of time; and he brought the first voyagers sailing
the sounding coasts, they brought the heathen idols of the great Stone
Rings, the Golden Age was over and past and lust and cruelty trod the
world; and he told of the rising of Christ, a pin-point of the cosmic
light far off in Palestine, the light that crept and wavered and did not
die, the light that would yet shine as the sun on all the world, nor
least the dark howes and hills of Scotland.
So what could you make of that, except that he thought
Kinraddie a right coarse place since the jungles had all dried up? And
his prayers were as short as you please, he'd hardly a thing to say of
the King or the Royal Family at all, had the Reverend Colquohoun. So
that fair put him out with Ellison and Mutch, they were awful King's men
both of them, ready to die for the King any day of the week and twice on
Sundays, said Long Rob of the Mill. And his preaching had no pleasure at
all for Chae Strachan either, he wanted a preacher to praise up
socialism and tell how Rich and Poor should be Equal. So the few that
listened thought feint the much of the old book-writer from Banff, he
stood never a chance, pleasing Chris and her father only, Chris didn't
count, John Guthrie did, but his vote was only one and a hantle few
votes the Banff man got when it came to the counting.
Stuart Gibbon was the third to make try for Kinraddie
manse, and that Sunday when Chris sat down in the kirk and looked up at
him in the pulpit she knew as well as she knew her own hand that he was
to please all of them, though hardly more than a student he was, with
black hair on him and a fine red face and shoulders strong and
well-bulked, for he was a pretty man. And first his voice took them, it
was brave and big like the voice of a bull, and fine and rounded, and he
said the Lord's Prayer in a way that pleased gentry and simple. For
though he begged to be forgiven his sins as he forgave those that sinned
against him--instead, as was more genteel, crying to be forgiven his
trespasses as he forgave those that trespassed against him--still he did
it with a fine solemnity that made everybody that heard right douce and
grave-like; and one or two joined in near the end of the prayer, and
that's a thing gey seldom done in an Auld Kirk kirk.
Next came his sermon, it was out of theSong
of Solomonand well and
rare he preached on it, showing that the Song had more meaning than one.
It was Christ's description of the beauty and fine comeliness of the
Auld Kirk of Scotland, and as such right reverently must it be read; and
it was a picture of womanly beauty that moulded itself in the lithe and
grace of the Kirk, and as such a perpetual manual for the women of
Scotland that so they might attain to straight and fine lives in this
world and salvation in the next. And in a minute or so all Kinraddie
kirk was listening to him as though he were promising to pay their taxes
at the end of Martinmas.
For it was fair tickling to hear about things like that
read out from a pulpit, a woman's breasts and thighs and all the rest of
the things, in that voice like the mooing of a holy bull; and to know it
was decent Scripture with a higher meaning as well. So everybody went
home to his Sunday dinner well pleased with the new minister lad, no
more than a student though he was; and on the Monday Long Rob of the
Mill was fair deaved with tales of the sermon and put two and two
together and saidWell,
preaching like that's a fine way of having your bit pleasure by proxy,
right in the stalls of a kirk, I prefer to take mine more private-like.But
that was Rob all over, folk said, a fair caution him and his Ingersoll
that could neither make watches nor sense. And feint the voter it put
off from tramping in to vote for Kinraddie's last candidate.
So in he went with a thumping majority, the Reverend
Gibbon, by mid-May he was at the Manse, him and his wife, an English
creature he'd married in Edinburgh. She was young as himself and bonny
enough in a thin kind of way, with a voice as funny as Ellison's, near,
but different, and big, dark eyes on her, and so sore in love were they
that their servant quean said they kissed every time he went out a bit
walk, the minister. And one time, coming back from a jaunt and finding
her waiting him, the minister picked up his wife in his arms and ran up
the stairs with her, both cuddling one the other and kissing, and
laughing in each other's faces with shining eyes; and into their bedroom
they went and closed the door and didn't come down for hours, though it
was bare the middle of the afternoon. Maybe that was true and maybe it
wasn't for the servant quean was one that old Mistress Sinclair had
fee'd for the Manse in Gourdon, and before a Gourdon quean speaks the
truth the Bervie burn will run backwards through the Howe.
Now every minister since Time was clecked in Kinraddie
had made a round of the parish when he was inducted. Some did it quick,
some did it slow, the Reverend Gibbon was among the quick. He came up to
Blawearie just after the dinner hour on a Saturday and met in with John
Guthrie sharpening a hoe in the close, weeds yammered out of Blawearie
soil like bairns from a school at closing time, it was coarse, coarse
land, wet, raw, and red clay, father's temper grew worse the more he saw
of it. So when the minister came on him and cried out right heartilyWell,
you'll be my neighbour Guthrie, man?father
cocked his red beard at the minister and glinted at him like an icicle
and saidAy, MISTER
Gibbon, I'll be that.So
the minister held out his hand and changed his tune right quick and said
quiet-likeYou've a
fine-kept farm here, Mr. Guthrie, trig and trim, though I hear you've
sat down a bare six months.And
he smiled, a big sappy smile.
So after that they were chief enough, sitting one the
other on a handle on the sharn-barrow right in the middle of the close,
the minister none feared for his brave, black clothes; and father told
him the coarse land it was in Kinraddie, and the minister said he well
believed him, it was only a man from the North could handle it so well.
In a minute or so they were chief as brothers, father brought him over
into the house, Chris stood in the kitchen and father saidAnd
this quean's my daughter, Chris.The
minister smiled at her with his glinting black eyes and saidI
hear you're right clever, Chrissie, and go up to the Duncairn College.
How do you like it?And
Chris blushed and saidFine, sir,and
he asked her what she was to be, and she told him a teacher, and he said
there was no profession more honourable.
Then mother came ben from putting the twins to sleep and
was quiet and friendly, just as she always was with loon or laird,
crowned with gold with her lovely hair. And she made the minister some
tea, and he praised it and said the best tea in his life he'd drunk in
Kinraddie, it was the milk. And father asked whose milk they got at the
Manse and the minister saidThe
Mains,and father shot
out his beard and saidWell
may it be good, it's the best land in the parish they've a hold of, the
dirt,and the minister
saidAnd now I'll have to
be dandering down to the Manse. Come over and see us some evening,
Chrissie, maybe the wife and I'll be able to lend you some books to help
in your studies.And off
he went, swack enough, but no more fleet than father himself who swung
alongside him down to where the turnip-park broke off from the road.
Chris made for the Manse next Monday night, she thought
maybe that would be the best time, but she said nothing to father, only
told mother and mother smiled and saidSurely,far-off
she seemed and dreaming to herself as so often in the last month or so.
So Chris put on the best frock that she used for Sundays, and her tall
lacing boots, and prigged out her hair in front of the glass in the
parlour, and went up across the hill by Blawearie loch, with the night
coming over the Grampians and the snipe crying in their hundreds beyond
the loch's grey waters--still and grey, as though they couldn't forget
last summer nor hope for another coming.
The Standing Stones pointed long shadow-shapes into the
east, maybe just as they'd done of an evening two thousand years before
when the wild men climbed the brae and sang their songs in the lithe of
those shadows while the gloaming waited there above the same quiet
hills. And a queer, uncanny feeling came on Chris then, she looked back
half-feared at the Stones and the whiteness of the loch, and then went
hurrying through the park paths till she came out above kirkyard and
Manse. Beyond the road the Meikle House rose up in its smother of trees,
you saw the broken walls of it, the flagstaff light was shining already,
it would soon be dark.
She unsnecked the door of the kirkyard wall, passing
through to the Manse, the old stones rose up around her silently, not
old when you thought of the Standing Stones of Blawearie brae but old
enough for all that. Some went back to the old, unkindly times of the
Covenanters, one had a skull and crossed bones and an hour-glass on it
and was mossed half over so that but hardly you could read the daft-like
script with its esses like effs, and it made you shudder. The yews came
all about that place of the oldest stone and Chris going past put out
her hand against it and the low bough of a yew whispered and gave a low
laugh behind her, and touched her hand with a cold, hairy touch so that
a daft-like cry started up on her lips, she wished she'd gone round by
the plain, straight-forward road, instead of this near-cut she'd thought
so handy.
So she whistled to herself, hurrying, and just outside
the kirkyard stood the new minister himself, leaning over the gate
looking in among the stones, he saw her before she saw him and his voice
fair startled her.Well,
Chrissie, you're very gay,he
said, and she felt ashamed to have him know she whistled in a kirkyard;
and he stared at her strange and queer and seemed to forget her a
minute; and he gave an unco half-laugh and muttered to himself, but she
heard him,One's enough
for one day.Then he
seemed to wake up, he mooed out at herAnd
now you'll be needing a book, no doubt. Well, the Manse is fair in a
mess this evening, spring-cleaning or something like that, but if you
just wait here a minute I'll run in and pick you something light and
cheerful.
Off he set, she was left alone among the black trees that
bent over the greyness of the kirkyard. Unendingly the unseen grasses
whispered and rustled above the stones' dim, recumbent shapes, and she
thought of the dead below those stones, farmers and ploughmen and their
wives, and little bairns and new-born babes, their bodies turned to
skeletons now so that if you dug in the earth you'd find only their
bones, except the new-buried, and maybe there in the darkness worms and
awful things crawled and festered in flesh grown rotten and black, and
it was a terrifying place.
But at last came the minister, not hurrying at all but
just drifting towards her, he held out a book and saidWell,
here it is, and I hope you'll like it.She
took the book and looked at it in the dying light, its name wasReligio
Medici,and she mastered
her shyness and askedDid you, sir?and
the minister stared at her and said, his voice just even as ever.Oh,
like hell!and turned
about and left her to go back through the terror of the yews. But they
didn't terrify at all, climbing home and thinking of that word he used,
swearing it had been and nothing else, should she tell of it to father?
No, that wouldn't do, a minister was only a man, and he'd
loned her a book, kind of him though he looked so queer. And besides,
father didn't know of this errand of hers down to the Manse, maybe he'd
think she was trying to hold in with gentry and would swear himself. Not
that he swore often, father, she told herself as she hurried across the
brae, and, hurrying, climbed out of the dimness into the last of the May
daylight with the sunset a glow and a glimmer that danced about her
feet, waiting for her; not often, except when things went clean over
him, as that day in the sowing of the park below Blawearie when first
the cart-shaft had broken and then the hammer had broken and then he'd
watched the rain come on, and he'd gone nearly mad, raging at Will and
Chris that he'd leather them till they hadn't enough skin to sit a
threepenny bit on; and at last, fair skite, he'd shaken his fist at the
sky and criedAy,
laugh, you Mucker!
Chris took a bit peep or so inReligio
Mediciand nearly yawned
her head off with the reading of it, it was better fun on a spare, slow
day to help mother wash the blankets. In the sun of the red, still
weather Jean Guthrie had every bed in Blawearie cleared and the blankets
piled in tubs half-filled with lukewarm water and soap, and Chris took
off her boots and her stockings and rolled her knickers far up her white
legs and stepped in the grey, lathered folds of blankets and tramped
them up and down. It felt fine with the water gurgling blue and
iridescent up through your toes and getting thicker and thicker; then
into the next tub while mother emptied the first, lovely work, she felt
she could trample blankets for ever, only it grew hot and hot, a red
forenoon while they did the washing. So next time mother was indoors she
took off her skirt and then her petticoat and mother coming out with
another blanket criedGod,
you've stripped!and gave
Chris a slap in the knickers friendly-like, and saidYou'd
make a fine lad, Chris quean,and
smiled the blithe way she had and went on with the washing.
But John Guthrie came home from the fields then, him and
Will, and as soon as she saw her father's face she went all shrivelled
up and he criedGet out of
that at once, you shameful limmer, and get on your clothes!And
out she got, white and ashamed, shamed more for father than herself, and
Will turned red and led off the horses, awkward-like, but John Guthrie
went striding across the close to the kitchen and mother and began to
rage at her.What would
folk say of the quean if they saw her sit there, near naked? We'd be the
speak and laughing-stock of the place.And
mother looked at him, sweet and cold,Ah,
well, it wouldn't be the first time you've seen a naked lass yourself;
and if your neighbours haven't they must have fathered their own bairns
with their breeks on.
Father had been in a fair stamash at that, he left mother
and went out with his face dead-white, not red, and he didn't say
another word, he didn't speak to mother all that evening nor all the
next day. Chris went to her bed that night and thought of the happening,
lying close-up and alone, it had been as though she saw a caged beast
peep from her father's eyes as he saw her stand in the tub. Like a fire
that burned across the close, it went on and on as though she still
stood there and he glowered at her. She hid her face below the blankets
but she couldn't forget, next morning she was able to bear thinking of
it no longer, the house had quietened with the folk gone out, she went
to mother and asked her straight, she'd never asked anything of the kind
before.
And then an awful thing happened, mother's face went grey
and old as she stopped from her work at the kitchen table, she went
whiter and whiter second on second, Chris near went out of her mind at
the sight.Oh, mother, I
didn't mean to vex,she
cried and flung her arms round mother and held her tight, seeing her
face then, so white and ill-looking it had grown in the last month. And
mother smiled at her at last, putting her hands on her shoulders.Not
you, Chris quean, just life. I cannot tell you a thing or advise you a
thing, my quean. You'll have to face men for yourself when the time
comes, there's none can stand and help you.And
then she said something queerer, kissing Chris,Mind
that for me sometime if I cannot thole it longer--and stopped and
laughed and was blithe again.We're
daft, the two of us, run out and bring me a pail of water.And
Chris went out with the pail, out and up to the pump in the hot red
weather, and then something came on her, she crept back soft-footed and
there mother stood as she'd left her, white and lonely and sad, Chris
didn't dare go into her, just stood and looked.
Something was happening to mother, things were happening
to all of them, nothing ever stayed the same except maybe this weather
and if it went on much longer the Reverend Colquohoun's bit jungles
would soon be sprouting back across the parks of the Howe. The weary
pleiter of the land and its life while you waited for rain or thaw! Glad
she'd be when she'd finished her exams and was into Aberdeen University,
getting her B.A. and then a school of her own, the English Chris, father
and his glowering and girning forgotten, she'd have a brave house of her
own and wear what she liked and have never a man vexed with sight of
her, she'd take care of that.
Or maybe she wouldn't, queer that she never knew herself
for long, grown up though she was, a woman now, near. Father said that
the salt of the earth were the folk that drove a straight drill and
never looked back, but she was no more than ploughed land still, the
furrows went criss and cross, you wanted this and you wanted that, books
and the fineness of them no more than an empty gabble sometimes, and
then the sharn and the snapping that sickened you and drove you back to
books--
She turned over on the grass with a jerk when she came to
that troubled thinking. The sunset was painting the loch, but hot as
ever it was, breaking up for one of those nights when you couldn't bear
a blanket above you and even the dark was a foul, black blanket. It had
died off, the wind, while she lay and thought, feint the loss was that,
but there was sign of nothing in the place of it, the broom stood up in
the late afternoon, not moving, great faces massed and yellow like the
faces of an army of yellow men, looking down across Kinraddie, watching
for the rain. Mother below would be needing her help, Dod and Alec back
from the school already, father and Will soon in from the fields.
There somebody was crying her already!
She stood up and shook out her frock and went through the
grass to the tail of the brae, and looked down and saw Dod and Alec far
below waving up at her. They were crying her name excitedly, it sounded
like the lowing of calves that had lost their mother, she went slow to
tease them till she saw their faces.
It was then, as she flew down the hill with her own face
white, that the sky crackled behind her, a long flash zig-zagged across
the Grampian peaks, and far across the parks by the hills she heard the
hiss of rain. The drought had broken at last.
Lying down when her climb up the cambered brae was done,
panting deep from the rate she'd come at--skirt flying and iron-resolute
she'd turn back for nothing that cried or called in all Blawearie--no,
not even that whistle of father's!--Chris felt the coarse grass crackle
up beneath her into a fine quiet couch. Neck and shoulders and hips and
knees she relaxed, her long brown arms quivered by her side as the
muscles slacked away, the day drowsed down an aureal light through the
long brown lashes that drooped on her cheeks. As the gnomons of a giant
dial the shadows of the Standing Stones crept into the east, snipe
called and called--
Just as the last time she'd climbed to the loch: and when
had that been? She opened her eyes and thought, and tired from that and
closed down her eyes again and gave a queer laugh. The June of last year
it had been, the day when mother had poisoned herself and the twins.
So long as that and so near as that, you'd thought of the
hours and days as a dark, cold pit you'd never escape. But you'd
escaped, the black damp went out of the sunshine and the world went on,
the white faces and whispering ceased from the pit, you'd never be the
same again, but the world went on and you went with it. It was not
mother only that died with the twins, something died in your heart and
went down with her to lie in Kinraddie kirkyard--the child in your heart
died then, the bairn that believed the hills were made for its play,
every road set fair with its warning posts, hands ready to snatch you
back from the brink of danger when the play grew over-rough. That died,
and the Chris of the books and the dreams died with it, or you folded
them up in their paper of tissue and laid them away by the dark, quiet
corpse that was your childhood.
So Mistress Munro of the Cuddiestoun told her that awful
night she came over the rain-soaked parks of Blawearie and laid out the
body of mother, the bodies of the twins that had died so quiet in their
crib. She nipped round the rooms right quick and pert and uncaring, the
black-eyed futret, snapping this order and that, it was her that
terrified Dod and Alec from their crying, drove father and Will out
tending the beasts. And quick and cool and cold-handed she worked,
peeking over at Chris with her rat-like face.You'll
be leaving the College now, I'll warrant, education's dirt and you're
better clear of it. You'll find little time for dreaming and dirt when
you're keeping the house at Blawearie.
And Chris in her pit, dazed and dull-eyed, said nothing,
she minded later; and some other than herself went searching and seeking
out cloths and clothes. Then Mistress Munro washed down the body that
was mother's and put it in a night-gown, her best, the one with blue
ribbons on it that she hadn't worn for many a year; and fair she made
her and sweet to look at, the tears came at last when you saw her so,
hot tears wrung from your eyes like drops of blood. But they ended
quick, you would die if you wept like that for long, in place of tears a
long wail clamoured endless, unanswered inside your head,Oh,
mother, mother, why did you do it?
And not until days later did Chris hear why, for they
tried to keep it from her and the boys, but it all came out at the
inquest, mother had poisoned herself, her and the twins, because she was
pregnant again and afraid with a fear dreadful and calm and clear-eyed.
So she had killed herself while of unsound mind, had mother, kind-eyed
and sweet, remembering those Springs of Kildrummie last of all things
remembered, it may be, and the rooks that cried across the upland parks
of Don far down beyond the tunnels of the years.
A month later Dod and Alec went back to school and as
they left to go home that night first one scholar cried after them and
others took it upDaftie,
daftie! Whose mother was a daftie?They
ran for Blawearie and came stumbling into the house weeping and weeping,
father went fair mad at the sight of them and skelped them both, but
skelping or not they wouldn't go back to the school next day.
And then Will spoke up, he cared not a fig for father
now. All in a night it seemed the knowledge had come on him father
wouldn't dare strike him again, he bought an old bicycle and would ride
off in an evening as he pleased, his face cold and hard when he caught
the glint of father's eye. Of a morning John Guthrie grumbled and girned
at him, cryingWhere do
you wander each night like a tink?But
Will would say never a word, except once when John Guthrie made at him
and then he swung round and whisperedTake
care.And at that father
stopped and drew back, Chris watched them with angry eyes, angry and
frightened in a breath as now when Will spoke up for his brothers.
Why should they go back? I wouldn't. Oh, and you
needn't glower at me. You take damn good care you never go near a mart
or a market yourself nowadays--I've to do all your dirty work for you!
Father louped to his feet at that, Will was on his as
well, they stood with fists clenched in the kitchen and Dod and Alec
stopped from their greeting and stared and stared. But Chris thrust the
table in between the two, she made out she wanted it there for baking;
and they dropped their fists and John Guthrie swore, but soft; and Will
reddened up and looked foolish.
But father that night, he said never a word to the rest
of them in Blawearie, he was over-proud for that, wrote off to his
sister Janet in Auchterless and asked that she take Dod and Alec in her
care and give them an Aberdeen schooling. In a week she was down from
the North, Auntie Janet and her man. Uncle Tam he was, big and
well-bulked and brave, and his watch-chain had rows and rows of wee
medals on it he'd gotten for playing quoits. And they were fell kind,
the two of them, Alec and Dod were daft with delight when they heard of
the Auchterless plan. But Auntie and Uncle had never a bairn of their
own and soon made plain if the boys went with them it would be for aye,
they wanted to adopt the pair of them.
Father sneered and thrust out his beard at thatSo
you'd like to steal the flesh of my body from me?and
Auntie Janet nodded, right eye to eye,Aye,
John, just that, we've never a wean of our own, though God knows it's
not for want of the trying;and
father saidIll blood
breeds ill;and Auntie
saidAy, it'll be long ere
I have to kill myself because my man beds me like a breeding sow;and
father saidYou
dirty bitch.
Chris stuck the dirl of the tow till her head near burst
and then ran out of the kitchen, through the close into the cornyard,
where Will was prowling about. He'd heard the noise and he laughed at
them, but his eyes were angry as his arm went round her.Never
heed the dirty old devils, one's bad as the other, father, auntie, or
that midden that's covered with its wee tin medals. Come off to the park
with me and we'll bring home the kye.
Deep in clover the cows as they came on them, Chris and
Will; and they went in no hurry at all, unanxious to be back in
Blawearie. And Will seemed angry and gentle and kind all at once.Don't
let them worry you, Chris, don't let father make a damned slave of you,
as he'd like to do. We've our own lives to lead.And
she saidWhat
else can I do but bide at home now?
He said he didn't know, but he'd be libbed and poleaxed
and gutted ifhedid
for long, soon as he'd saved the silver he was off to Canada, a man was
soon his own master there. Chris listened to that with eyes wide opened,
she caught at the hope of it and forgot to smack at the kye that
loitered and boxed and galumphed in their cloverful-foolishness up the
brae.Oh, Will, and you
could send for me as your housekeeper!He
turned a dull red and smacked at the kye and Chris sighed and the hope
went out, he'd no need to answerAy,
maybe, but maybe it would hardly suit you.
So then she knew for sure he'd a lass somewhere in
Drumlithie, it was with her he planned to share a bed and a steading in
the couthy lands of Canada.
And when they got back to Blawearie they found the row
ended, father'd given in to his sister Janet, ill the grace though he
did it with. In three days time but three of them were sitting to meat
at the kitchen table, Chris listened for days for voices of folk that
were dead or gone, both far enough from Blawearie. But even that lost
strangeness in time, the harvest drew on, she went out to the park to
help with it, lush and heavy enough it had sprung and yellowed with the
suns and rains of the last two months.
He'd no binder, father, wouldn't hear of the things, but
he'd brought an old reaper from Echt and with that they cut the corn;
though Will swore he'd be the fool of Kinraddie seen driving a thing
like that. Father laughed at him over his beard, like a spitting cat,If
Kinraddie's laughing can make you a bigger fool than nature made you
it'll be a miracle, and don't fret the sark from your dowp, my mannie,
I'LL do the driving.And
though Will muttered at that he gave in all the same, for every harvest
there came something queer and terrible on father, you couldn't handle
the thing with a name, it was as if he grew stronger and crueller then,
ripe and strong with the strength of the corn, he'd be fleeter than ever
and his face filled out, and they'd hear him come up from the parks,
astride the broad back of Bess, singing hymns, these were the only
things that he ever sang, singing with a queer, keen shrillness that
brought the sweat in the palms of your hands.
Now in the park below Blawearie, steading and house, the
best crop, and that was the ley, was the first they cut, a great swither
of a crop with straw you could hardly break and twist into bands for
sheaves. Sore work Chris found it to keep her stretch of each bout
cleared for the reaper's coming, the weather cool and grey though it
was. But a sun was behind the greyness and sometimes when you raised
your head from the sheaves you'd see a beam of light on the travel far
over the parks of Upperhill or lazing across the moor or dancing a-top
the Cuddiestoun stooks, a beam from the hot, grey haze of that sky that
watched and waited above the sweat of the harvesting Howe.
First ere the cutting in the ley began there'd been roads
to clear all round the corn, wide bouts that father scythed himself, he
swore that the scythe would yet come back to its own when the binders
and reapers rotted in rust and folk bred the old breed again. But its
time was past or was yet to come, the scythe's, out the reaper was
driven and yoked, Chris followed down at the tail of it. The best of
weather for harvest, folk said, it was ill to cut in a swither of heat;
and so still was the air by morn and noon it reminded you of the days in
Spring, you'd hear the skirl of the blades ring down the Howe for mile
on mile, the singing of Long Rob of the Mill, the Cuddiestoun creatures
swearing at Tony as he stood and gowked at the stooks. Then Blawearie's
reaper clanged in through the gates with Bess and Clyde at the pole, and
the blades flashed and brightened like the teeth of a beast and snarled
in a famished freedom. And then John Guthrie criedGet
up!and swung the horses
down the bout, and the hungry snarl changed to a deep, clogged growling
as the corn was driven on the teeth by the swinging reaper flails; and
down the bout, steady and fine, sped the reaper, clean-cutting from top
to bottom, with never a straggling straw as on other farms, John Guthrie
saw to that.
But feint the time had you for glowering at rip or
reaper, soon as the horses were off and the flail drove the first sheaf
from the tail-board Chris had pounced on that sheaf and gathered and
bound it and flung it aside before you could sayGlenbervie!and
had run to the next and twisted its band, and gathered and bound and
bound and gathered with her hands like a mist below her eyes, so quick
they were. Midway the bout Will met with her, working up from the foot,
and flicking the sweat from his face. And just as they straightened and
stretched and looked up to the head of the park the clong, clong of the
empty reaper would change to the snarling engaging whirr as father
guided the horses to the cutting again. Still the sun smouldered behind
its mists and out by Kinneff the fog-horn moaned all hours, you felt
like moaning like that yourself long ere the day was out and your back
near cracked and broke with the strain of the bending.
But in three days time the ley was cut, the yavil glowed
yellow across the dykes and they moved to that without stop. And then
suddenly the mists cleared up and the fog-horn stopped from its droning,
it came on real blistering weather of heat, but hardly you'd bear to
touch on the wood of the reaper shaft when you loosed the horses, so hot
it grew. Kinraddie gasped and then bent to its chaving again, this heat
wouldn't last, the rain was due, God help the crops that waited cutting
then.
The second day of the yavil cutting a tink climbed up the
Blawearie road from the turnpike and cried to John Guthrie for work, and
father saidMaybe, maybe.
Let's see the work that you've in you first,and
the tink saidAy, fine
that.And he off with his
coat and took the middle of the bout, and was up it in a jiffy,
gathering and binding to the manner born, you might say, and giving
Chris a bit smile when he met with her. So, coming down the next bout
father cried to the tink that he'd take him on for a day or so, if the
weather held; and Chris could get up to the house and see to the
supper--no idling, quean, mind that.He
was a black-like, gypsy childe, the tink, father wouldn't have him into
the kitchen for meat, the creature might be all lice; and he wouldn't
have him sleep in the house.
So Chris made him a shake-down out in the barn, he said
he was real content with that. But when she carried him his supper over
to the barn the first night she felt shamed for him suddenly, and told
him she'd have had him eat in the house if it hadn't been father. And he
saidDon't let that fash you, lass, I'm as little anxious for his
company as he is for mine. Forbye, he's only a Kinraddie clown!Chris
felt her face flame at that, it just showed you there was no good doing
kindness to tinks, but she made out she hadn't heard and turned back to
go over the close.
Then it was the tink put out his arm, round her legs
before she could move, almost he pulled her down on the hay beside him.You've
never lain with a man yet, lass, I can see, and that's a sore waste of
hot blood like yours. So mind I'm here if you want me.He
loosed her then, laughing low, she couldn't do anything but stare and
stare at him, sick and not angry, something turned in her stomach and
her knees felt weak. The tink put out his hand and patted her leg again,Mind,
if you want me I'll be here,and
Chris shook her head, she felt too sick to speak, and slipped out of the
barn and crossed the close and washed and washed at her hands and face
with hot water till father lowered his paper and askedHave
you gone clean daft?
But up in her room that night, the room that was hers and
hers only now, Will slept where his brothers had slept, she saw a great
moon come over the Grampians as she undressed for bed. She opened the
window then, she liked to sleep with it open, and it was as though the
night had been waiting for that, a waft of the autumn wind blew in, it
was warm and cool and it blew in her face with a smell like the smell of
late clover and the smell of dung and the smell of the stubble fields
all commingled.
She leant there breathing it, watching the moon with the
hills below it but higher than Blawearie, Kinraddie slept like a place
in a picture-book, drifting long shadows that danced a petronella across
the night-stilled parks. And without beginning or reason a strange ache
came in her, in her breasts, so that they tingled, and in her throat,
and below her heart, and she heard her heart beating, and for a minute
the sound of the blood beating through her own head. And she thought of
the tink lying there in the barn and how easy it would be to steal down
the stairs and across the close, dense black in its shadows, to the
barn.
But it was only for a second she thought of that, daftly,
then laughed at herself, cool and trim and trig, and closed the window,
shutting out the smells of the night, and slowly took off her clothes,
looking at herself in the long glass that had once stood in mother's
room. She was growing up limber and sweet, not bonny, perhaps, her
cheek-bones were over high and her nose over short for that, but her
eyes clear and deep and brown, brown, deep and clear as the Denburn
flow, and her hair was red and was brown by turns, spun fine as a
spider's web, wild, wonderful hair.
So she saw herself and her teeth clean-cut and even, a
white gleam in that grave brown stillness of face John Guthrie's blood
had bequeathed to her. And below face and neck now her clothes were off
was the glimmer of shoulders and breast and there her skin was like
satin, it tickled her touching herself. Below the tilt of her left
breast was a dimple, she saw it and bent to look at it and the moonlight
ran down her back, so queer the moonlight she felt the running of that
beam along her back. And she straightened as the moonlight grew and
looked at the rest of herself, and thought herself sweet and cool and
fit for that lover who would some day come and kiss her and hold her,
so.
And Chris saw the brown glimmer of her face grow sweet
and scared as she thought of that--how they'd lie together, in a room
with moonlight, and she'd be kind to him, kind and kind, giving him all
and everything, and he'd sleep with his head here on her breast or
they'd lie far into the mornings whispering one to the other, they'd
have so much to tell!
And maybe that third and last Chris would find voice at
last for the whimsies that filled her eyes, and tell of rain on the roof
at night, the terror and the splendour of it across the long slate
roofs; and the years that faded and fell, dissolved as a breath, before
those third clear eyes; and mother's face, lying dead; and the Standing
Stones up there night after night and day after day by the lock of
Blawearie, how around them there gathered things that wept and laughed
and lived again in the hours before the dawn, till far below the cocks
began to crow in Kinraddie and day had come again. And all that he'd
believe, more than so often she believed herself, not laugh at, holding
and kissing her, so. And faith! no more than a corpse he'd hold if she
didn't get into her bed-gown and into her bed, you may dream of a lad
till you're frozen as a stone, but he'll want you warmer than that.
So that was the harvest madness that came on Chris, mild
enough it had been, she fell fast asleep in the middle of it. But it
scored her mind as a long drill scores the crumbling sods of a brown,
still May, it left neither pleasure nor pain, but she'd know that track
all the days of her life, and its dark, long sweep across the long
waiting field. Binder and reaper clattered and wheeped through the
brittle weather that held the Howe, soon the weather might break and the
stooking was far behind in Blawearie. But Will would have nothing to do
with night-time work, he laughed in John Guthrie's face at the mention
of it and jumped on his bicycle and rode for Drumlithie evening on
evening. Father would wander out by the biggins and stare at the parks
and then come glinting into the house and glower at Chris,Get
off to your bed when you've milked the kye;and
she made little protest at that, she was tired enough at the end of a
day to nearly sleep in the straw of the byre.
But one night she didn't dare sleep, for up in the room
he'd shared with mother she heard John Guthrie get out of bed and go
slow padding about in his stocking soles, like a great cat padding
there, a beast that sniffed and planned and smelled at the night. And
once he came soft down the cowering creak of the stairs and stopped by
her door, and she held her breath, near sick with fright, though what
was there to be feared of? And she heard his breath come quick and
gasping and the scuffle of his hand on the sneck of the door; and then
that stopped, he must have gone up or down, the house was quiet, but she
didn't dare sleep again till Will came clattering home in the still,
small hours.
For the harvest madness was out in Kinraddie if Chris had
been quick to master hers. And though a lad and a quean might think
their ongoings known to none but themselves, they'd soon be sore
mistaken, you might hide with your lass on the top of Ben Nevis and have
your bit pleasure there, but ten to one when you got up to go home
there'd be Mistress Munro or some claik of her kidney, near sniggering
herself daft with delight at your shame.
First it was Sarah Sinclair and the foreman at Upperhill,
Ewan Tavendale he was, that the speak rose round: they'd been seen
coming out of the larch wood above the Upperhill, that wood where the
daftie had trapped Maggie Jean, and what had they been doing there on
their lone? It was Alec Mutch of Bridge End that met them, him taking a
dander over the moor to the smithy with a broken binder-blade for
mending. The two hardly saw him at first, Miss Sinclair's face was an
unco sight, raddled with blushing it was like the leg of a tuberculous
rabbit when you skinned the beast, Ewan slouched along at her side.
hang-dog he looked as though it was his mother he'd bedded with, said
Alec, and maybe that's how it had felt. Alec cried aGood
night!to the pair, they
near jumped out of their skins, and went on with the story to the smithy
beyond the moor. And from there you may well be sure it went through
Kinraddie fast enough, the smith could tell lies faster than he could
shoe horses; and he was fell champion at that.
Truth or no, Chae Strachan got hold of the story and went
over to Upperhill to see Ewan Tavendale and ask in a friendly way what
he meant to do about Sarah, his sister-in-law, the daft old trollop. And
maybe he'd have settled things canty and fine but that he came on Ewan
at the wrong bit minute, he was sitting outside the bothy door with the
rest of the bothy billies; and when Chae came up there rose a bit
snigger, that fair roused Chae, he stopped bang in front of them and
asked what the hell they were laughing at? And Sam Gourlay saidLittle,
damned little,looking
Chae from head to foot; and Ewan said he felt more in the way of weeping
than laughing at such a sight, and he spoke in a slow, impudent way that
fair roused Chae's dander to the boiling point.
So, being a fell impatient man, and skilly with his
hands, he took Sam Gourlay a clout in the lug that couped him down in
the stour and then before you could wink he and Ewan were at it,
ding-dong, like a pair of tinks, all round the Upperhill close; and
Upprums came running in his leggings, the creature, fair scandalized,
but he got a shove in the guts that couped him right down in the greip
where once his son Jock had been so mischieved; and that was the end ofhisinterfering.
In a minute or so it was plain that Ewan, fight though he might, was
like to have the worst of the sett, he was no match for that madman
Chae. So the rest of the bothy lads up and went for Chae; and when he
got back to Peesie's Knapp he'd hardly a stitch on his back. But Ewan,
the coarse, dour brute, had a cut in the face that stoppedhismouth
for a while, and a black eye big enough to sole the boots on
Cuddiestoun's meikle feet, folk said.
And faith! if it shouldn't be Cuddiestoun himself that
began the next story, running into the middle of it himself, you might
say, going up to the Manse to get a bit signature on some paper or other
for his lawyer man. But Mr. Gibbon they told him wasn't at home,
Mistress Gibbon herself came out to tell him that, kind and fine as she
was, but he didn't like her, the English dirt.
So, fair disgruntled he turned from the door, maybe the
poor brute's big sweating feet were fell sore already with a hot day's
stooking. But just down at the end of the Manse's garden, where the yews
bent thick above the lush grass their boughs that had sheltered the lost
childe Wallace in the days before the coarse English ran him to earth
and took him to London and there hanged and libbed him and hewed his
body in four to hang on the gates of Scotland--there, in that grass in
the half-dark was a rustling and squealing as though a drove of young
pigs was rootling there. And Cuddiestoun stopped and picked up a handful
of gravel from the minister's walk and flung it into the grass and criedAway
with you!for maybe it
was dogs in heat that were chaving there, big collies are none so chancy
to meet when the creatures are set for mating. But instead of a collie
up out of the grass rose the Gourdon quean, her that old Mistress
Sinclair had fee'd for the Manse; and Munro saw her face then with a
glazed look on it, like the face of a pig below the knife of its killer;
and she brushed the hair from her face, daft-like, and went trailing
past Munro, without a word from her, as though she walked half-asleep.
But past him, going into the Manse, she began to whistle,
and laughed a loud scraich of a laugh--as though she'd tried right
desperately for something, and won, and beaten all the world in the
winning of it. So it seemed to Cuddiestoun, and faith! you couldn't put
that down to imagination, for he'd never had any, the ugly stock; so
fair queer it must well have been, he stood and stared after her,
dumbfoundered-like, and was just turning at last, to tramp down to the
road, when he found Mr. Gibbon himself at his elbow.
It had grown fell dark by then but not so dark that
Cuddiestoun couldn't see the Minister was without a hat and was
breathing in great deep paichs as though he'd come from the running of a
race. And he barked out,Well,
speak up, man, what do you want?Munro
was sore took aback at hearing a fine childe like the minister snap at
him that way. So he just saidWell,
well, Mr. Gibbon, you've surely been running a bit race?and
then he wished he hadn't, for the minister went by him without another
word, and then flung over his shoulderIf
you want me, come to-morrow.
And into the Manse he went and banged the door with a
clash that fair made Cuddiestoun loup in his meikle boots. So there was
nothing for him but to taik away home to Mistress Munro, and faith! you
might well believe the story lost nothing in the telling she gave it,
and soon every soul in Kinraddie had a different version, Long Rob's was
cried to John Guthrie as he went by the Mill. He never spread scandal
about folk, Long Rob--only horses, was the joke they told of him--but
maybe he classed ministers lower than them.
It seemed like enough to John Guthrie, the story, though
he'd no coarse notions like Rob and his Ingersoll, the world was rolling
fast to a hell of riches and the old slave days come back again,
ministers went with it and whored with the rest. For the bitterness had
grown and eaten away into the heart of him in his year at Blawearie. So
coarse the land proved in the turn of the seasons he'd fair been
staggered, the crops had fared none so bad this once, but he saw in a
normal year the corn would come hardly at all on the long, stiff slopes
of the dour red clay.
Now also it grew plain to him here as never in Echt that
the day of the crofter was fell near finished, put by, the day of folk
like himself and Chae and Cuddiestoun, Pooty and Long Rob of the Mill,
the last of the farming folk that wrung their living from the land with
their own bare hands. Sign of the times he saw Jean Guthrie's killing of
herself to shame him and make of his name a by-word in the mouths of his
neighbours, sign of a time when women would take their own lives or
flaunt their harlotries as they pleased, with the country-folk climbing
on silver, the few, back in the pit, the many; and a darkness down on
the land he loved better than his soul or God.
And next it was Will himself that started the claiks of
Kinraddie, him and his doings in Drumlithie. But Chris met the story ere
it reached Kinraddie, she met it in Drumlithie itself, in the yard of
the gardener Galt. The tink had been gone from Blawearie that day she
set out with her basket, no sign of the rain showed even then, the heat
held still as the white, dull heat from a furnace door. Down in the
turnpike, the motor-cars went whipping by as she set her feet for
Mondynes there where the battle was fought in the days long syne. Below
the bridge went the wash of the burn west to the Bervie Water, bairns
cried and splashed in the bridge's lithe, they went naked there when
they dared, she saw them glance white and startled in the shelter of the
stones.
Soon the heat grew such that she took off her hat and
swung that in her hand and so climbed the road, and there to the left
rose Drumlithie at last, some called it Skite to torment the folk and
they'd get fell angry at that in Skite. No more than a rickle of houses
it was, white with sunshine below its steeple that made of Skite the
laugh of the Howe, for feint the kirk was near it. Folk said for a joke
that every time it came on to rain the Drumlithie folk ran out and took
in their steeple, that proud they were of the thing, it came from the
weaver days of the village when damn the clock was there in the place
and its tolling told the hour.
So that was Skite, it rose out of its dusts and its
ancient smells, the berries hung ripe in the yard of the gardener Galt
and he looked at Chris in a queer kind of way when he heard her name.
Syne he began a sly hinting and joking as he weighed her berries, a
great sumph of a man the creature was, fair running with creash in that
hot weather, you near melted yourself as you looked at him.And
how's Will?he asked.We
haven't seen much of him here of late--faith, the roses are fair fading
from Mollie Douglas' cheeks.And
Chris saidOh?right
stiff-like, and thenAnd
I'll have two pounds of your blackberries too.So
he packed her that, hinting and gleying like a jokesome fat pig, she
could have taken him a clout in the face, but didn't, it would only stir
up more scandal, there seemed enough and to spare of that. Whatever
could Will have been doing; and what had he done to his quean that he'd
left her?
Right glad she was to be out from the stink of Skite with
the road of Mondynes in front of her. Then she heard the bell of a
bicycle far down the road behind and drew to one side, but the thing
didn't pass, it slowed down and somebody called out, timid-like,Are
you Will Guthrie's sister?Chris
turned and saw her then, knew her at once Will's quean, young and
white-faced and fair, and heard her own voice, near troubled as the eyes
that looked at her as she answeredYes;
and you'll be Mollie Douglas?
The face of the girl blushed slow at that, slow and
sweet, and she looked away back at the steeple of Skite as though she
feared the thing spied on them; and then suddenly, near crying, she was
asking Chris to tell Will he must ride over and see her again, come
again that night, she couldn't bear it longer--she didn't care were she
shameless or not, she couldn't! And then she seemed to read the question
in Chris's eyes, the blood drained off from her face in a minute and
then came back, it seemed to Chris she must be blushing all over under
her clothes, right down to the soles of her feet as she herself
sometimes blushed. But she criedOh,
you think THAT, like all of them, but it isn't true!Staring
at her surprised and shamed Chris found she just couldn't speak up and
deny that THAT was indeed what she'd thought, what else was a body to
think?
Then she found Mollie Douglas's face bent close to hers,
sweet and troubled and shamed as her own. And Mollie tried to look at
her and then looked away, blushing as though she'd sink into the ground,
such a fool of herself she was making.It's
not that at all, only I love him so sore I can't live if I don't see
Will!
So there they were in the middle of the road, so shamed
to look one at the other they'd nothing to say; and then a gig came
spanking along from the station, at sight of it Mollie jumped on her
bicycle again, and wheeled it about, and looked over her shoulder with a
smile you couldn't forget, and stammered and criedTa-ta!
But Chris couldn't forget that look in her eyes, she went
home with that in her mind and at supper that night couldn't take her
own eyes from Will. She saw him then for the first time in years, almost
a man, with his fair hair waving across his head and spreading to his
cheeks in a rust-red down, like the down on a new-hatched chick; and his
eyes blue and dark as a quean's, and kind when they looked at her, sulky
when they turned on father. Not that they turned there often, there was
never a word between Will and father unless they were clean compelled to
it; like dumb folk working and eating together that needed no speech for
hate.
Father ate his supper and climbed down the hill with his
gun, Will loitered from door to window, whistling and idle, till he saw
right across the Howe, up on Drumtochty hills, something that rose and
coiled ash-grey and then darker against the autumn sky, a great shape
like a snake there in the quiet of the evening air, with its tail a
glimmer that wasn't the sunset, burning up red in the lithe of the
hills.Whin-burning,he
called to Chris,they're
burning the whins up Drumtochty way, come on up the moor and have a try
at ours. They're damned sore in the need of it.--But I've my jelly to
make, you gowk!--Oh, to hell with your jelly, we'll soon be jelly and
bones in a grave ourselves, come on!
So she went, they gathered great piles of old papers for
twisting in torches, and made up the brae to the moor. They sat down on
the grass and breathed a while, Kinraddie below them all cut and close-stooked,
waiting the coming of the night, the lowe of the Bervie lights as the
glow of another whin-burning there by the sea. They spread out to left
and right below the moor-gate, Chris held to the left and ran through
the whins, stopping to kick holes down close to the ground wherever a
meikle bush rose up. Then far round the knowe Will cried he was
starting, she saw him a long way off with the sky behind him and called
backAll right!and
knelt by the biggest bush she'd struck; and kindled her torch and set
its light to the crackling dryness of the grass.
It whoomed in an instant, the whin, she set her torch
into it and ran to the next and fired that; and so in and out, backwards
and forwards worked round the brae, you'd to speed quick as your legs
could carry you to fire the frontward bushes when those behind raged out
with their flames and smoke at your hair. In the dry, quiet evening the
fire crackled up and spread and roared through the bushes and caught on
the grass and crept and smoked on quick, searching trains to bushes
unlit, and fired them, half you thought those questing tongues alive and
malignant as they lapped through the grass. By the time Chris met with
Will at the moor-gate there spread before them a park like an upland sea
on fire, sweeping the hill, now the sun had quite gone and the great red
roaring beast of a thing hunted and postured unchallenged, all Kinraddie
was lit with its glare.
Will was black as a nigger, his eyebrows scorched, he
pulled Chris down to rest on the grass.By
God, I hope the fire doesn't catch on the fence up there, else old
Guthrie will be casting me out of Blawearie for bringing his grey hairs
in sorrow to the grave!
He said that sneering-like, mocking at father's
Aberdeenshire voice, and Chris stirred half-angry, and sighed, and then
askedWhat would you do if
he did put you out?and
Will saidGo.--Would
you get a fee?--Damn the fears of that.
But he didn't sound over-confident, Chris knew right well
that he'd find it none so easy if it came to the push, with the harvest
over now in the Howe. And then, for she'd clean forgot her in the
excitement of the fires, she minded the quean Mollie Douglas--it was as
though she saw her white face by Will's in the firelit dark:I
met Mollie Douglas in Drumlithie to-day, she asked me to ask you to go
down and see her.
He sat stock-still, he mightn't have heard, she pushed at
his elbowWill!And
at that he shook off her hand,Oh,
I hear. What's the good? I can't have a quean like other folk--I haven't
even a fee.--Maybe she doesn't want your fee, just you. Will, they're
saying things about her and you in Drumlithie--Galt and coarse tinks
like that.--Saying things? What things?--What they aye say--that she's
with a baby to you and you're biding away from her now.--Galt said
that?--Hinted at it, but he'll do more than hint when he's not speaking
to a sister of yours.
She'd never heard him swear as he did then, jumping to
his feet with his fists tight-clenched.That
about Mollie--they said that, the orra swine! I'll mash that bloody
Galt's head till his own mother won't know it!But
Chris told him that wouldn't help much, folk would just snigger and say
there was something, sure, in the story of Mollie's condition.Then
what am I to do?Will
asked, raging still, and Chris blushed and saidWait.
Do you love her, Will?But
she might have known well enough how he'd take that question, maybe he
blushed himself in the lithe of the dark, he threw down the paper
torches he'd saved and mutteredI'm
away to Drumlithie,and
was running down the hill before she could stop him.
Maybe, as he told Chris later, he went with no other
intention than seeing his Mollie herself. But as luck would have it, who
should he near run down with his bicycle outside the Drumlithie Hotel
but Galt himself, the great creash, gey drunk, and Alec Mutch in his
company.
And Alec cried,Fine
night, Will,but Galt
criedDon't take her out
to-night, Will lad, the grass is overwet for lying on.Will
stopped and jumped off and left his bicycle lying in the road and went
up to Galt--Speaking to me?And
the fat creash, panting like a sow in litter and sweating all down the
great face of him, hiccoughed drunken-likeWho
else?--Well take that then,Will
said and let drive at the great belly of Galt; but Mutch caught his arm
and criedYoung Guthrie,
you've fair gone daft, the man's old enough to be your father.Will
said if he'd a father like that he'd kill him and then go and drown
himself, and tried to break away from Mutch and get at the Galt creash
again. But Galt was right unkeen for that, in a minute he'd turned, for
all his fat, and made off like a hare up the Drumlithie lanes, real
swack with his girth and all, and was out of sight in a second.
Well, sure you may be there were claiks enough in Skite
for Mutch to get all the story and drive home with it to the Bridge End.
In a day or so it was all about the place, Will was the laughing-stock
of Kinraddie. Father heard it first from the postman, who waved him down
to the road to tell him, and soon's he heard it John Guthrie went back
to Will stooking in the yavil field and saidWhat's
this I hear about you and some orra tink bitch in Drumlithie?
Now Will had been in a fair fine temper all that day from
seeing his Mollie again: and she'd made him swear he'd not fly in a rage
or go making a fool of himself if he heard their coarse hinting at her.
So he just went on with the stooking and saidWhat
the devil are you blithering about?Father
shot out his beard and criedAnswer
my question, Will!and
Will saidPut a question
with sense in it, then. How am I to know what you've been hearing? I'm
not a thought-reader,and
father saidDamn't to
hell, you coarse brute, am I to stand your lip as well as your whoring
every night? Is't true there's a tink called Mollie Douglas that's with
a bairn by you?and Will
saidIf
you call Mollie Douglas a tink again, I'll knock the damned teeth down
the throat of you, father though you be.
And they stopped their stooking, glaring at each other,
and father made to strike at Will but Will caught his arm and criedMind!So
father lowered his arm, white as a ghost he'd turned, and went on with
the stooking. Will stared at him, white himself, and then went on with
the stooking as well. And that might well have been the end of it so far
as Blawearie went, but that evening they heard a clatter outside in the
close and there was the minister's bicycle and Mr. Gibbon himself new
off it; and into the kitchen he came and saidGood
evening, Chris, good evening, Mr. Guthrie. Can I have a word with Will?
So Chris was sent to bring Will from the byre where he
bedded the kye, he came back with her grey in the gills, there sat the
minister and father, solemn as two owls in the loft of a barn, it was
plain they'd been taking the matter through hand together. Father saidChris,
go to your room,and
there was nothing else for her but go; and what happened after that she
was never sure, for Will wouldn't tell her, but she heard the sound of
the three of them, all speaking at once and Will getting in a rage: and
then suddenly the kitchen-door banged and there was Will striding across
the close to the barn where he stored his bicycle. Mr. Gibbon's voice
cried after him, angry-like, with a boom,Just
a minute, Will, where are you going?and
Will looked back and saidYou're
so anxious I should lie with my lass and get her with a bairn that I'm
off to try and oblige you.And
he wheeled his bicycle out by the honeysuckle hedge and pedalled away
down the road and didn't come back to Blawearie till one o'clock in the
morning.
Chris hadn't been able to sleep, she lay listening for
him, and when she heard him come up the stairs she cried his name in a
whisperWill!He
stopped uncertain outside her door and then lifted the sneck and came in
soft-footed and sat on the side of her bed. Chris raised herself on an
elbow and peered at him, there was little light in the room and no moon
that night though the sky was white with stars, and Will no more than a
shadow hunched on her bedside there, with a whitish blotch for a face.
And Chris whisperedWill,
I heard what you said whenyou
went away. But you didn't do it?and
Will gave a low laugh, he wasn't in a rage,It
wouldn't be for want of prigging by half the holy muckers in Kinraddie
if I had. But you needn't be feared for that, I'd as soon cut my own
throat as do hurt to--HER.
So the minister's interfering brought no harm, faith!
he'd more need to roust round his own bit byre with a clart if
Cuddiestoun's story of the Gourdon quean were true. And soon enough
after that a worse scandal went on the rounds about him, folk shook
their heads and made out they were fell affronted: all but Long Rob of
the Mill, and he swore B'God, it was the best he'd heard since
Nebuchadnezzar went out to grass!
And the way of it was that in early November a bit
daughter was born to the Manse, and the Reverend Gibbon was proud as
punch, he preached a grand sermon that Sunday,For
unto us a child is born;and
it was so affecting that old Mistress Sinclair of the Netherhill broke
down and cried in her hanky about it; but Long Rob of the Mill, when he
heard that, said:She
shouldn't take whisky sweeties to the kirk with her.Everybody
else was fell impressed, folk who'd been a bit off the Manse for months
agreed he'd maybe his faults, the Gibbon childe, but who hadn't these
days? and feint the many could wag a pow like that in a Mearns pulpit.
But damn't! if the next day he didn't go off and spoil the whole thing,
the Monday it was, he was just setting out for the train to Aberdeen,
Mr. Gibbon, when the nurse cried out to him he might bring a small
chamber-pot for the girlie, none in the Manse was suitable. He gave a
bit blush, the big, curly bull, and saidVery well, nurse,in
a bull-like voice, and off to the station he went, it was Fordoun, and
left his bicycle there and caught his train.
About what happened after that some told one thing and
some another and some told both together. But it seems that fair early
in the day in Aberdeen the Reverend Gibbon fell in with some friends of
his; and they'd have it that a dram there must be to celebrate the
occasion. So off the whole lot of them went to a public house and had
their dram and syne another on top of that to keep the first one down,
syne two-three more to keep the wind out, it was blowy weather on the
edge of winter. Some said that midway the carouse Mr. Gibbon had got up
to make a bit prayer: and one of the barmaids had laughed at him and he
chased her out of the bar up to her room and finished his prayer with
her there. But you couldn't believe every lie you heard.
Sometime late in the afternoon he minded his train, the
minister, and hired a cab and bought the bit chamber, and caught the
train by the skin of the teeth. No sooner was he down in his carriage
than, fell exhausted, he went fast asleep and blithely snored his way
south through many a mile, right dead to the world he was.
Most of the story till then was maybe but guessing,
ill-natured guessing at that, but the porter at the Bridge of Dunn, a
good twenty miles south from Fordoun, swore to the rest. He was just
banging the doors of the old 7.30 when out of a carriage window came a
head, like a bull's head out of the straw, he'd fair a turn, had the
porter, when he saw the flat hat that topped it.Is
this Fordoun?the meikle
head mooed, and the porter saidNo,
man, it's a damned long way from being that.
So he opened the door for Kinraddie's minister, and Mr.
Gibbon came stumbling out and rubbed his eyes, and the porter pointed to
a platform where he'd find a slow train back to Fordoun. This platform
lay over a little bridge and the minister set out to cross; and the
first few steps he managed fell well, but near the top he began to sway
and missed his footing and flung out his hands. The next thing that the
porter saw was the chamber-pot, burst from its paper, rolling down the
steps of the bridge with the minister's hat in competition and the
minister thundering behind.
And then, when the porter had picked him up and was
dusting him, the Reverend Gibbon broke down and sobbed on the porter's
shoulder what a bloody place was Kinraddie! And how'd the porter like to
live 'tween a brier bush and a rotten kailyard in the lee of a house
with green shutters? And the minister sobbed some more about the
shutters, and he said you couldn't lie down a minute with a quean in
Kinraddie but that some half-witted clod-hopping crofter began to throw
stones at you, they'd feint the respect for God or kirk or minister down
in Kinraddie. And the porter said it was awful the way the world went,
he'd thought of resigning from the railway himself and taking to
preaching, but now he wouldn't.
Syne he helped the minister over to an up-going train and
went home to his wife and told her the tale: and she told it to her
sister from Auchenblae: andshetold
it to her man who told it to Mutch; and so the whole thing came out. And
next time he rode down by the Peesie's Knapp, the minister, a head shot
out of a hedge behind him, it was wee Wat Strachan, and cried loud as
you likeAny
chambers to-day?
Not that they'd much to shout for that winter themselves,
the Strachans; folk said it was easy to see why Chae was so strong on
Rich and Poor being Equal: he was sore in need of the sharing out to
start ere he went clean broke himself. Maybe old Sinclair or the wife
were tight with the silver that year, but early as December Chae had to
sell his corn, he brought the first threshing of the season down in
Kinraddie. John Guthrie and Will were off at the keek of dawn when they
saw the smoke rise from the engines, Chris followed an hour later to
help Chae's wife with the dinner and things. And faith! broke he might
be but he wasn't mean, Chae, when the folk came trampling in to eat
there was broth and beef and chicken and oat-cakes, champion cakes they
made at the Knapp; and loaf and jelly and dumpling with sugar and milk;
and if any soul were that gutsy he wanted more he could hold to the
turnip-field, said Chae.
The first three men to come in Chris hardly saw, so
busied she was pouring their broth for them. Syne, setting the plates,
she saw Alec
Mutch, his great lugs like red clouts hung out to dry:
and he criedAy, Chris!and
began to sup as though he hadn't seen food for a fortnight. Beside him
was Munro of the Cuddiestoun, he was eating like a colie ta'en off its
chain, Chae's thresh was a spree to the pair of them. Then more
trampling and scraping came from the door, folk came drifting in
two-three at a time, Chris over-busied to notice their faces, but some
watched her and give a bit smile and Cuddiestoun cried to father,Losh,
man, she's fair an expert getting, the daughter. The kitchen's more her
style than the College.
Some folk at the tables laughed out at that, the
ill-nature grinned from the faces of them, and suddenly Chris hated the
lot, the English Chris came back in her skin a minute, she saw them the
yokels and clowns everlasting, dull-brained and crude. Alec Mutch took
up the card from Cuddiestoun then and began on education and the speak
ran round the tables. Most said it was a coarse thing, learning, just
teaching your children a lot of damned nonsense that put them above
themselves, they'd turn round and give you their lip as soon as look at
you.
But Chae was sitting down himself by then and he wouldn't
have that.Damn't man,
you're clean wrong to think that. Education's the thing the working man
wants to put him up level with the Rich.And
Long Rob of the Mill saidI'd
have thought a bit balance in the bank would do that.But
for once he seemed right in agreement with Chae--the more education
the more of sense and the less of kirks and ministers.Cuddiestoun
and Mutch were fair shocked at that, Cuddiestoun cried outWell,
well, we'll hear nothing coarse of religion,as
though he didn't want to hear anything more about it and was giving out
orders. But Long Rob wasn't a bit took aback, the long rangy childe, he
just cocked an eye at Cuddiestoun and criedWell,
well, Munro, we'll turn to the mentally afflicted in general, not just
in particular. How's that foreman of yours getting on, Tony? Is he still
keeping up with his shorthand?There
was a snicker at that, you may well be sure, and Cuddiestoun closed up
quick enough, here and there folk had another bit laugh and said Long
Rob was an ill hand to counter. And Chris thought of her clowns and
yokels, and was shamed as she thought--Chae and Long Rob they were, the
poorest folk in Kinraddie!
At a quarter past six the mill loosed off again from its
bumble-bee hum, the threshers came trooping down to the tables again.
More dumpling there was, cut up for tea, and bread and butter and scones
and baps from the grocer, and rhubarb and blackberry jam, and syrup for
them that preferred it, some folk liked to live on dirt out of tins.
Most of the mill folk sat down in a right fine tune, well they might,
and loosed out their waistcoats. Will was near last to come in from the
close, a long, dark young childe came in at his heels, Chris hadn't set
eyes on him before, nor he on her by the way he glowered. The two of
them stood about, lost-like and gowked, looking for seats in the crowded
kitchen till Mistress Strachan cried over to ChrisWill
you lay them places ben in the room?
So she did and took them their supper there, Will looked
up and criedHello, Chris,
how have you gotten on?and
Chris saidFine, how've
you?Will laughedWell,
God, my back would feel a damned sight easier if I'd spent the day in my
bed. Eh, Tavendale?And
then he minded his manners.This
is Ewan Tavendale from Upprums, Chris.
So that was who; Chris felt queer as he raised his head
and held out his hand, and she felt the blood come in her face and saw
it come dark in his. He looked over young for the coarse, dour brute
folk said he was, like a wild cat, strong and quick, she half-liked his
face and half-hated it, it could surely never have been him that did
THAT in the larch wood of Upperhill? But then if you could read every
childe's nature in the way he wiped his nose, said Long Rob of the Mill,
it would be a fine and easy world to go through.
So she paid him no more heed and was out of the Knapp a
minute later and ran nearly all the way up to Blawearie to see to the
milking there. The wind was still up but the frost was crackling below
her feet as she ran, the brae rose cold and uncanny with Blawearie's
biggings uncertain shadows high up in the cold mirk there. She felt
tingling and blithe from her run, she said to herself if she'd only the
time she'd go out every winter night and run up over hills with frost
and the night star coming in the sky.
But that night as Blawearie went to its bed Will opened
his bedroom door and criedFather!
Chris! See that light down there in the Knapp!
Chris was over at her window then in a minute, barefooted
she ran and peered by the shadow of the great beech tree. And there was
a light right plain enough, more than a light, a lowe that crackled to
yellow and red and rose in the wind that had come with the night.
Peesie's Knapp would be all in a blaze in a minute, Chris knew; and then
father came tearing down the stairs, crying to Will to get on his
clothes and follow him, Chris was to bide at home, mind that. They heard
him open the front door and go out and go running right fleetly down the
night of Blawearie hill, Chris cried to WillWait
for me, I'm coming as well,and
he cried backAll
right, but for God's sake hurry!
She couldn't find her stockings then, she was trembling
and daft; and when found they were, her corsets were missing, slipped
down the back of the kist they had, Will came knocking at the doorCome
on!--Light a match and come in,she
called and in he came, knotting his muffler, and lighted a match and
looked at her in her knickers and vest, reaching out for the new-seen
corsets.Leave the damn
things where they are, you're fine, you should never have been born a
quean.She was into her
skirt by then, and saidI
wish I hadn't,and pulled
on her boots and half-laced them, and ran down the stairs after Will and
put on her coat at the foot.
In a minute they were out in the dimness then, under the
starlight, it was rimed with frost, and running like mad down to the
lowe that now rose like a beacon against the whole of Kinraddie.I
hope they've wakened!Will
panted, for every soul knew the Strachans went straight to bed at the
chap of eight. Running, they could see by then it was the barn itself
that had taken alight, the straw sow seemed burned to a cinder already,
and the barn had caught and maybe the house. And all over Kinraddie
lights were springing up, as they ran Chris lifted her eyes and saw
Cuddiestoun's blink and shine bright down through the dark.
And faith, quick though they were, it was father that
saved Chae Strachan's folk. He was first down at the blazing Knapp, John
Guthrie; and he ran round the biggings and saw the flames lapping and
lowing at the kitchen end of the house, not a soul about or trying to
stop them though the noise was fair awful, the crackling and burning,
and the winter air bright with flying sticks and straw. He banged at the
door and criedDamn't to
hell do you want to be roasted?and
when he got no answer he smashed in the window, they heard him then and
the bairns scraiched, there was never such a lot for sleep, folk said,
Chae'd have slept himself out of this world and into hell in his own
firewood if John Guthrie hadn't roused him then. But out he came
stumbling at last, he'd only his breeks on; and he took a keek at John
Guthrie and another at the fire and cried outKirsty,
we're all to hell!and
off he tore to the byre.
But half-way across the close as he ran the barn
swithered and roared and fell, right in front of him, and he'd to run
back, there was no way then of getting at the byre. By then Long Rob of
the Mill came in about, he'd run over the fields, louping dykes like a
hare, and his lungs were panting like bellows, he was clean winded. He
it was that helped Mrs. Strachan with the bairns and such clothes as
they could drag out to the road while Chae and John Guthrie tried to get
at the byre from another angle: but that was no good, the place was
already roaring alight.
For a while there was only the snarling of the fire
eating into the wooden couplings, the rattle of falling slates through
the old charred beams, and then, the first sound that Will and Chris
heard as they came panting down the road, a scream that was awful, a
scream that made them think one of the Strachans was trapped down there.
And at that sound Chae covered his ears and criedOh
God, that's old Clytie,Clytie
was his little horse, his sholtie, and she screamed and screamed,
terrible and terrible, Chris ran back to the house trying not to hear
and to help poor Kirsty Strachan, snivelling and weeping, and the bairns
laughing and dancing about as though they were at a picnic, and Long Rob
of the Mill smoking his pipe as cool as you please, there was surely
enough smell and smoke without that? But pipe and all he dived in and
out of the house and saved chairs and dishes and baskets of eggs; and
Mistress Strachan criedOh,
my sampler!and in Rob
tore and rived that off a blazing wall, a meikle worsted thing in a
cracked glass case that Mistress Strachan had made as a bairn at school.
And then came the clip-clop of a gig, it was Ellison down
from the Mains, him and two of his men, and God! he might be little more
than a windy Irish brute but he'd sense for all that, the gig was
crammed with ropes and pails, Ellison strung out the folk and took
charge, the pails went swinging from hand to hand over the close from
the well to the childe that stood nearest the fire, and he pelted the
fire with water. But feint the much good that did for a while and then
there was an awful sound from the byre, the lowing of the cattle with
the flames among them, and Long Rob of the Mill cried outI
can't stand it!and took
a pick-axe and ran round the back of the close; and there he found the
sow was nothing but a black heap then, hardly burning at all, and he
cried back the news and himself louped through the smoke and came at the
back wall of the byre and started to smash it in fast as he could.
Chae followed and John Guthrie, and the three of them
worked like madmen there, Ellison's men splashed water down on the roof
above them till suddenly the wall gave way before them and Chae's oldest
cow stuck out its head and saidMoo!right
in Chae's face. The three scrambled through into the byre then, that was
fell dangerous, the rafters were crumbling and falling all about the
stalls, and it was half-dark there in spite of the flames. But they
loosed another cow and two stirks before the fire drove them out, the
others they had to leave, their lowing was fair demented and the smell
of their burning sickening in your throat, it was nearly a quarter of an
hour later before the roof fell in and killed the cattle. Long Rob of
the Mill sat down by the side of the road and was suddenly as sick as
could be, and he saidBy God, I never want to
smell roasting beef again.
So that was the burning of the Peesie's Knapp, there was
a great throng of folk in about by then, the Netherhill folk and the
Upperhill, and Cuddiestoun, and Alec Mutch with his great lugs lit up by
the fire, some had come on bicycles and some had run across half
Kinraddie and two had brought their gigs. But there was little to do now
but stand and glower at the fire and its mischief. Ellison drove off to
the Mains with Mistress Strachan and the bairns, there for the night
they were bedded. The cattle he'd saved from the byre Chae drove to
Netherhill, folk began to put on their jackets again, it was little use
waiting for anything else, they'd away home to their beds.
Chris could see nothing of either father or Will, she
turned to make for Blawearie then. Outside the radiance of the burning
Knapp it was hard and cold, starless but clear, as though the steel of
the ground glowed faintly of itself; beyond rose the darkness as a black
wall, still and opaque. On the verge of its embrasure it was that she
nearly ran into two men tramping back along the road, she hardly saw
them till she was on them. She criedOh,
I'm sorry,and one of
them laughed and said something to the other, next instant before she
knew what was happening that other had her in his arms, rough and
strong, and had kissed her, he had a face with a soft, grained skin, it
was the first time a man had ever kissed her like that, dark and
frightening and terrible in the winter road.
The other stood by, Chris, paralysed, heard him breathing
and knew he was laughing, and a far crackle rose from the last of the
lowe in the burning biggings. Then she came to herself and kicked the
man that held her, young he was with his soft, grained face, kicked him
hard with her knee and then brought her nails down across his face. As
he sworeYou bitch!and
let go of her she kicked him again, with her foot this time, and he
swore again, but the other saidHist!
Here's somebody coming,and
the two of them began to run, the cowardly tinks, it was father and Will
on the road behind them.
And when Chris told Will of what happened, next morning
it was that she told him when father wasn't by, he looked at her
queerly, half-laughing, half-solemn, and made out he thought nothing of
the happening, all ploughmen were like that, aye ready for fun. But it
hadn't seemed fun to her, dead earnest rather; and lying that night in
her bed between the cold sheets, curled up so that she might rub her
white toes to some warmth and ease, it was in her memory like being
chased and bitten by a beast, but worse and with something else in it,
as though half she'd liked the beast and the biting and the smell of
that sleeve around her neck and that soft, unshaven face against her
own. Sweet breath he had had anyway, she thought, and laughed to
herself, that was some consolation, the tink. And then she fell asleep
and dreamed of him, an awful dream that made her blush even while she
knew she was dreaming, she was glad when the morning came and was sane
and cool and herself again.
But that dream came to her often while the winter wore on
through Kinraddie, a winter that brought hardly any snow till New Year's
Eve and then brought plenty darkening the sky with its white cascading.
It was funny that darkening the blind fall and wheep of the snow should
bring, like the loosening of a feather pillow above the hills, night
came as early as three in the afternoon. They redd up the beasts early
that evening, father and Will, feeding them well with turnips and straw
and hot treacle poured on the straw, and then they came in to their
supper and had it and sat close round the fire while Chris made a fine
dumpling for New Year's Day. None of them spoke for long, listening to
that whoom and blatter on the window-panes, and the clap-clap-clap of
some loose slate far up on the roof, till father whispered and looked at
them, his whisper hurt worse than a shout,God,
I wonder why Jean left us?
Chris cried then, making no sound, she looked at Will and
saw him with his face red and shamed, all three of them thinking of
mother, her that was by them so kind and friendly and quick that last
New Year, so cold and quiet and forgotten now with the little dead twins
in the kirkyard of Kinraddie, piling black with the driving of the snow
it would be under the rustle and swing and creak of the yews. And Will
stared at father, his face was blind with pity, once he made to speak,
but couldn't, always they'd hated one the other so much and they'd feel
shamed if they spoke in friendship now.
So father took up his paper again and at ten o'clock
Chris went out to milk the kye and Will went with her over the close,
carrying the lantern, the flame of it leapt and starred and quivered and
hesitated in the drive of the snow. In the light of it, like a rain of
arrows they saw the coming of the storm that night swept down from the
Grampian heuchs, thick and strong it was in Blawearie, but high in the
real hills a smoring, straight wall must be sweeping the dark, blinding
down against the lone huts of the shepherds and the faces of lost tinks
tramping through it looking for lights the snow'd smothered long before.
Chris was shaking, but not with cold, and inside the byre she leant on a
stall and Will saidGod,
you look awful, what is't?And
she shook herself and saidNothing.
Why haven't you gone to see Mollie to-night?
He said he was going next day, wasn't that enough, he'd
be a corpse long ere he reached Drumlithie to-night--listen to the
wind, it'll blow the damn place down on our lugs in a minute!And
the byre shook, between the lulls it seemed to set its breath to rise
and take from the hill-side into the air, there was such straining and
creaking. Not that the calves or the stirks paid heed, they slept and
snored in their stalls with never a care, there were worse things in the
world than being a beast.
Back in the house it seemed to Chris she'd but hardly
sieved the milk when the great clock ben in the parlour sent peal after
peal out dirling through the place. Will looked at Chris and the two at
father, and John Guthrie was just raising up his head from his paper,
but if he'd been to wish them a happy New Year or not they were never to
know, for right at that minute there came a brisk chap at the door and
somebody lifted the sneck and stamped the snow from his feet and banged
the door behind him.
And there he was, Long Rob of the Mill, muffled in a
great grey cravat and with leggings up to the knees, covered and frosted
from head to foot in the snow, he criedHappy
New Year to you all! Am I the first?And
John Guthrie was up on his feet,Ay,
man, you're fairly that, out of that coat of yours!They
stripped off the coat between them, faith! Rob's mouser was nearly
frozen, but he said it was fine and laughed, and waited the glass of
toddy father brought him and criedYour
health!And just as it
went down his throat there came a new knock, damn't if it wasn't Chae
Strachan, he'd had more than a drink already and he criedHappy
New Year, I'm the first foot in am I not?And he made to kiss Chris,
she wouldn't have minded, laughing, but he slithered and couped on the
floor. Long Rob peered down at him and cried out, shocked-like,Good
God, Chae, you can't sleep there!
So he was hoisted into a chair and was better in a minute
when he'd had another drink; and he began to tell what a hell of a life
it was he'd to live in Netherhill now, the old mistress grew worse with
the years, she'd near girn the jaws from her face if the Strachan bairns
so much as gave a bit howl or had a bit fight--fell unreasoning that, no
bairns there were but fought like tinks. And Long Rob said Ay, that was
true, as it said in the hymn 'twas dog's delight to bark and bite, and
faith! the average human could out-dog any cur that ever was pupped.
Now, horses were different, you'd hardly ever meet a
horse that was naturally a quarreller, a coarse horse was a beast they'd
broken in badly. He'd once had a horse--a three-four years come
Martinmas that would have been, or no! man, it was only two--that he
bought up in Auchinblae at the fall of the year, a big roan, coarse as
hell, they said, and he'd nearly kicked the guts out of an old man
there. Well, Rob had borrowed a bridle and tried to ride home the beast
to the Mill, and twice in the first mile the horse threw him off with a
snort and stood still, just laughing, as Rob picked himself up from the
stour. But Rob just said to himself,All
right, my mannie, we'll see who'll laugh last;and when he'd got that
horse home he tied him up in his stall and gave him such a hammering, by
God he nearly kicked down the stable.
Every night for a week he was walloped like that, and
damn't man! in the shortest while he'd quietened down and turned into a
real good worker, near human he was, that horse, he'd turn at the end of
a rig as it drew to eleven o'clock and begin to nicker and neigh, he
knew the time fine. Ay, canty beast that, he'd turned, and sold at a
profit in a year or so, it just showed you what a handless man did with
a horse, for Rob had heard that the beast's new owner had let the horse
clean go over him. A sound bit leathering and a pinch of kindness was
the only way to cure a coarse horse.
Chae hiccuped and saidDamn't
ay, man, maybe you're right. It's a pity old Sinclair never thought of
treating his fish-wife like that, she'd deave a door-nail with her
whines and plaints, the thrawn old Tory bitch.And
Long Rob said there were worse folk than Tories and Chae said if there
were they kept themselves damn close hidden, if he'd his way he'd have
all Tories nailed up in barrels full of spikes and rolled down the side
of the Grampians; and Long Rob said there would be a gey boom in the
barrel trade then, the most of Kinraddie would be inside the barrels;
and Chae saidAnd
a damned good riddance of rubbish, too.
They were both heated up with the toddy then, and raising
their voices, but father just said, cool-like, that he was a Liberal
himself, and what did they think of this bye-election coming off in the
February? Chae said it would make no difference who got in, one tink
robber was bad as another, Tory as Liberal; damn't if he understood why
Blawearie should be taken in by those Liberals. Long Rob saidWhy
don't you stand as the Socialist man yourself, Chae?and
winked at Chris, but Chae took it real serious and said maybe he'd do
that yet once Peesie's Knapp was builded again. And Long Rob saidWhy
wait for that? You're allowing your opinions to eat their heads off in
idleness, like a horse in a stall in winter. Losh, man, but they're
queer beasts, horses. There's my sholtie, Kate--But Chae saidOch,
away to hell with your horses, Rob. Damn't, if you want a canty kind of
beast there's nothing like a camel,and
maybe he'd have just begun to tell them about the camel if he hadn't
fallen off his chair then, nearly into the fire he went, and John
Guthrie smiled at him over his beard, as though he'd really rather cut
his throat than smile. And then Will and Long Rob helped Chae to his
feet, Long Rob gave a laugh and said it was time they went dandering
back to their beds, he'd see Chae far as the Netherhill.
The storm had cleared a bit by then, it was bright
starlight Chris saw looking after the figures of the two from her
bedroom window--not very steady, either of them, with shrouded Kinraddie
lying below and a smudge there, faint and dark, far down in the night,
that was the burned-out steading of Peesie's Knapp.
And there the smudge glimmered through many a week, they
didn't start on Peesie's new steading till well in the February. But
faith! there was clatter enough of tongues round the place right from
the night of the fire onwards. All kinds of folk came down and poked in
the ash with their walking-sticks, the police and the Cruelty came from
Stone haven; and the factor came, he was seldom seen unless there was
money in question; and insurance creatures buzzed down from Aberdeen
like a swarm of fleas, their humming and hawing and gabbling were the
speak of all Kinraddie.
Soon all kinds of stories flew up and down the Howe, some
said the fire had been lighted by Chae himself, a Drumlithie billy
riding by the Knapp late that night of the fire had seen Chae with a box
of spunks in his hand, coming from the lighting of the straw sow, sure;
for soon as he saw the billy on the bicycle back Chae had jumped to the
lithe again. Others said the fire had been set by the folk of
Netherhill, their only chance of recovering the silver they'd loaned to
Chae. But that was just a plain lie, like the others, Chris thought,
Chae'd have never cried for his burning sholtie like that if he'd meant
it to burn for insurance.
But stories or no, they couldn't shake Chae, he was paid
his claims up to the hilt, folk said he'd made two-three hundred pounds
on the business, he'd be less keen now for Equality. But faith! if he'd
won queer silver queerly, he'd lost feint the queer notion in the
winning of it.
Just as the building of the new bit Knapp began so did
the bye-election, the old member had died in London of drink, poor
brute, folk said when they cut his corpse open it fair gushed out with
whisky. Ah well, he was dead then, him and his whisky, and though he'd
maybe been a good enough childe to represent the shire, feint the thing
had the shire ever seen of him except at election times. Now there came
a young Tory gent in the field, called Rose he was, an Englishman with a
funny bit squeak of a voice, like a bairn that's wet its breeks. But the
Liberal was an oldish creature from Glasgow, fell rich he was, folk
said, with as many ships to his name as others had fields. And real
Radical he was, with everybody's money but his own, and he said he'd
support the Insurance and to Hell with the House of Lords,Vote
for the Scottish Thistle and not for the English Rose.
But the Tory said the House of Lords had aye been
defenders of the Common People, only he didn't say aye, his English was
a real drawback; and it was at the meeting where he said that, that Chae
Strachan up and asked if it wasn't true that his own uncle was a lord?
And the Tory saidYes,and
Chae said that maybethatlord
would be glad to see him in Parliament but there was a greater Lord who
heard when the Tories took the name of poor folk in vain. The God of old
Scotland there was, aye fighting on the side of the people since the
days of old John Knox, and He would yet bring to an end the day of
wealth and waster throughout the world, liberty and equality and
fraternity were coming though all the damned lordies in the House of
Lords should pawn their bit coronets and throw their whores back in the
streets and raise private armies to fight the common folk with their
savings.
But then the stewards made at Chae, he hadn't near
finished, and an awful stamash broke out in the hall; for though most of
the folk had been laughing at Chae they weren't to see him mishandled by
an English tink and the coarse fisher brutes he'd hired from Gourdon; to
keep folk from asking him questions. So when the first steward laid
hands on Chae, John Guthrie, who was sitting near, criedAy,
man, who'll you be?And
the fisher sworeYou keep
quiet as well,and father
rose and took him a belt in the face, and the fisher's nose bled like
the Don in spate, and somebody put out a leg and tripped him up and that
was the end of his stewarding. And when the other steward made to come
to his help Long Rob of the Mill saidAway
home to your stinking fish!and
took him by the lug and ran him out of the hall and kicked him into the
grass outside.
Then everybody was speaking at once, Mr. Gibbon was the
Tory lad's chairman and he called outCan't
you give us fair play, Charles Strachan?But
Chae's blood was up, strong for the Kirk though he was in a way he clean
forgot who he spoke to--Come outside a minute, my mannie, and I'll
fair-play you!The
minister wasn't such a fool as that, though, he said that the meeting
was closed, fair useless it was to go on; and he said that Chae was a
demagogue and Chae said that he was a liar, folk cried outWheest,
wheest!at that and begun
to go home. The Tory childe got hantle few votes in the end, Chae
boasted it was his help put in the old Liberal stock; and God knows if
he thought that fine he was easily pleased, they never saw the creature
again in Kinraddie.
But that was the last time father struck a man, striking
in cold anger and cold blood as was the way of him. Folk said he was an
unchancy child to set in a rage; but his next rage mischieved himself,
not others. For a while up into the New Year, April and the turnip-time,
things at Blawearie went fair and smooth, Will saying no more than his
say at plate or park, never countering father, hardly he looked at him
even; and father maybe thought to rule the roost as he'd done before
when Will was no more than a boy that cowered when he heard that sharp
voice raised, frightened and beaten and lying through nights with his
sore wealed body in the arms of Chris. But Chris, knowing none of his
plannings, guessed right well something new it was kept Will quiet, so
quiet day on day, yet if you looked at him sudden you'd more likely than
not seeing him smiling to himself, lovely the face that he smiled with,
brown and clean, and his eyes were kind and clear and the hair grew down
on his head in a bonny mop, Will took after mother with that flame of
rusty gold that was hers.
Ah well, he kept to his whistling and his secret smiling,
and every night after loosening and suppering was done, off down the
road on his old bit bicycle he'd go, you'd hear through the evening
stillness nothing but the sound of the old machine whirring down
Blawearie road, and the weet-weet of the peewits flying twilit over
Kinraddie, wheeling and circling there in the dark, daft creatures that
made their nests in this rig and that and would come back next day and
find them robbed or smothered away. So for hundreds of years they'd
done, the peewits, said Long Rob of the Mill, and hadn't learned the
sense of the thing even yet; and if you were to take that as a sample of
the Divine Intelligence that had allotted a fitting amount of brain to
each creature's needs then all you could suppose was that the Divine had
more than a spite against the peesie.
Chris heard him say that one day she looked in at the
Mill to ask when a sack of bruised corn, left there by Will, would be
ready. But there on the bench outside the Mill, in the shade from the
hot Spring weather, sat Rob and Chae and Mutch of Bridge End, all
guzzling beer from long bottles they were, Rob more bent on bruising
their arguments than on bruising Blawearie's corn.
Peewits were flying round the Mill fell thick, peewits
and crows that nested in the pines above the Mill, and the birds it was
had begun the argument. Chris waited for a while, pleased enough with
the shade and rest, hearkening to Long Rob make a fool of God. But Alec
Mutch wagged his meikle lugs,No,
man, you're fair wrong there. And man, Rob, you'll burn in hell for
that, you know.Chae was
half on his side and half wasn't, he saidDamn
the fears, that's nothing but an old wife's gabble for fearing the
bairns. But Something there IS up there, Rob man, there's no denying
that. If I thought there wasn't I'd out and cut my throat this minute.Then
the three of them sighted Chris and Rob got up, the long, rangy childe
with the glinting eyes, and criedIs't
about the bruised corn, Chris? Tell Will I'll do it to-night.
But Will had unyoked and made off to Drumlithie, his
usual gait, when Chris got home, and father was up on the moor with his
gun, you heard the bang of the shots come now and then. Chris had a
great baking to do that night, both father and Will would eat oatcakes
and scones for a wager, bought bread from the vans soon scunnered them
sore. Warm work it was when you'd heaped a great fire and the girdle
glowed below, you'd nearly to strip in fine weather if you weren't to
sweat yourself sick. Chris got out of most things but a vest and a
petticoat, she was all alone and could do as she pleased, it was fine
and free and she baked with a will.
She was lifting the last cake, browned and good and twice
cross cut, when she knew that somebody watched her from the door of the
kitchen, and she looked, it was Ewan Tavendale, him she hadn't seen
since the day of the thresh at Peesie's Knapp. He was standing against
the jamb, long and dark with his glowering eyes, but he reddened when
she looked, not half as much as she did herself, she could feel the red
warm blushing come through her skin from tip to toe;such
a look he's taking,she
thought,it's
a pity I'm wearing a thing and he can't study the blush to its end.
But he just saidHello,
is Will about?and Chris
saidNo, in Drumlithie I
think,and they stood and
glowered like a couple of gowks, Chris saw his eyes queer and soft and
shy, the neck of his shirt had fallen apart, below it the skin was white
as new milk, frothed white it looked, and a drop of sweat stood there
where the brown of his tanning and the white of his real skin met. And
then Chris suddenly knewsomethingand
blushed again, sharp and silly, she couldn't stop, she'd minded the
night of the fire at Peesie's Knapp and the man that had kissed her on
the homeward road, Ewan Tavendale it had been, no other, shameless and
coarse.
He was blushing himself again by then, they looked at
each other in a white, queer daze, Chris wondered in a kind of a panic
if he knew what she knew at last, half-praying she was he wouldn't speak
of it when he began to move off from the door, still red, stepping
softly, like father, like a limber, soft-stepping cat.Well,
I was hoping I'd see him in case he should leave us suddenlike.
She stared at him all awake, that kissing on the winter
road forgotten.Leave?
Who said Will was leaving?--Oh, I heard he was trying for a job in
Aberdeen, maybe it's a lie. Tell him I called in about. Ta-ta.
She calledTa-ta,
Ewan,after him as he
crossed the close, he half-turned round and smiled at her, quick and
dark like a cat again,Ta-ta,
Chris.And she stood
looking after him a long while, not thinking, smiling, till the smell of
a burning cake roused her to run, just like the English creature Alfred.
And next morning she said to Will after breakfast,
casual-like, but her heart in her throat,Ewan
Tavendale was down to see you last night, he thought you'd be leaving
Blawearie soon.And Will
took it cool and quiet,Did
he? God, they'd haver the breeks from a Highlandman's haunches, the
gossipers of Kinraddie. Tavendale down to see me? More likely he was
down to take a bit keek at you, Chris lass. So look after yourself, for
he's Highland and coarse.
In July it came to the hay-time, and John Guthrie looked
at Will and said he was going to have down the hay with a scythe this
year, not spoil the bit stuff with a mower. Fair plain to Chris he
expected Will to fly in a rage at that and say he wasn't to chave and
sweat in the forking of rig after rig when a mower would clear
Blawearie's park in a day or two at the most. But Will just saidAll
rightand went on with
his porridge, and went out to the field in the tail of father, a fork on
his shoulder and whistling happy as a lark, so that father turned round
and snappedHold your
damned wheeber, you'll need your breath for the bout.Even
at that Will laughed, as a man at a girning bairn, right off they were
worse friends than even the year before. But all that time, Will was
making his plans and on the morning of the August's last Saturday, Chris
aye remembered that morning with its red sun and the singing of the
North Sea over the Howe, that morning he said to fatherI'm
off to Aberdeen to-day.
Father said never a word, he went on with his porridge
and finished it, he mightn't have heard Will speak, he lighted his pipe
and stepped out of the house, fleet as ever he went, and began coling
the hayfield in front of the house; Will could see him then and be
shamed of himself and his idle jaunting. But Will wasn't ashamed, he
looked after father with a sneer,The
old fool thinks he can frighten me still,and said something else
Chris didn't catch, syne looked at her suddenly, his eyes bright and his
lips moving,Chris--Lord,
I wish you were coming as well!
She stared at that amazed, pleased as well.What,
up to Aberdeen? I'd like it fine but I can't. Hurry and dress else
you'll miss your train.
So he went and dressed, fell slow-like he seemed at the
business, she thought, the morning and a jaunt in front of him. She went
to the foot of the stairs and cried up to ask if he were having a sleep
before he set out? And instead of answering her back with a jest and a
fleer he laughed a shaky laugh and called out All right, he'd soon be
down. And when he came she saw him in his Sunday suit, with his new
boots shining, he'd on a new hat that suited him fine.Well,
will I do?he asked and
Chris saidYou look fair
brave,and he saidHavers!and
picked up his waterproof,Well,
ta-ta, Chris;and
suddenly turned round to her and she saw his face red and strange and he
kissed her, they hadn't kissed since they were children lying in a bed
together on a frosty night.
She wiped her mouth, feeling shamed and pleased, and
pushed him away, he tried to speak, and couldn't, and saidOh,
to hell!and turned and
ran out of the door, she saw him go down the Blawearie road fast as he
could walk, looking up at the hills he was with the sun on them and the
slow fog rising off the Howe, jerking his head this way and that, fast
though he walked, but he didn't once look in father's direction nor
father at him. Syne she heard him whistling bonny and clear,Up
in the Morning,it was,
they'd used that for a signal in the days when they went the school-road
together, and down on the turnpike edge he looked round and stood still,
and waved his hand, he knew she was watching. Then a queer kind of pain
came into her throat, her eyes smarted and she told herself she was
daft, Will was only off for the day, he'd be back at night.
But Will didn't come back that night, he didn't come back
the next day, he came back never again to John Guthrie's Kinraddie. For
up in Aberdeen he was wed to his Mollie Douglas, he'd altered his birth
certificate for that; and the earth might have opened and swallowed them
up after that, it seemed not a soul in Aberdeen had seen them go. So
when father went into Aberdeen on the track of the two there wasn't a
trace to be found, he went to the police and raged at them, but they
only laughed--had he lain with the quean himself, maybe, that so mad he
was with this son of his?
So father came home, fair bursting with rage, but that
didn't help. And ten days went by before they heard of the couple again,
it came in a letter Will sent to Chris at Blawearie; and it told that
through Mollie's mother, old Mistress Douglas, Will had got him a job in
the Argentine, cattleman there on a big Polled Angus ranch, and he and
Mollie were sailing from Southampton the day he wrote; and oh! he wished
Chris could have seen them married; and remember them kindly, they would
write again, and Mrs. Douglas at Drumlithie would aye be a friend to
her.
So that was Will's going, it was fair the speak of the
parish a while, folk laughed at father behind his back and said maybe
that would bring down his pride a bit; and they asked Chae Strachan,
that well-travelled childe, where was this Argentine, was it a fine
place, would you say? And Chae saidOch,fine,
he'd never been actually there, you might say, but a gey fine place it
was, no doubt, a lot of silver was there; andDamn't
man, young Guthrie's no fool to spread his bit wings, I was just the
same myself.But most
said it was fair shameful of Will to go off and leave his father like
that, black burning shame he might think of himself; it just showed you
what the world was coming to, you brought bairns into the world and
reared them up and expected some comfort from them in your old age and
what did you get? Nothing but a lot of damned impudence, it was all this
education and dirt. You might well depend on it, that coarse young
Guthrie brute would never thrive, there'd be a judgment on him, you'd
see, him and his coarse tink quean.
Judgment or not on Will, it was hardly a week before his
own rage struck down John Guthrie. He'd been setting up ricks in the
cornyard when Chris heard a frightened squawk break out from the hens.
She thought maybe some strange dog was among them and caught up a
spurtle and ran out to the close and there saw father lying still in his
blood, black blood it looked on his face where he'd fallen and
mischieved himself against a stone.
She cried out to him in fright and then cooled herself
down, and ran for water from the spring and dipped her hanky in it and
bathed his face. He opened his eyes then, dazed-like he seemed, and he
saidAll right, Jean lass,and
tried to rise, and couldn't. And rage came on him again, he put out his
hand and gave Chris a push that near threw her down, he tried and tried
to rise up, it was sickening to see. He chaved on the ground as though
something tied him there, all one of his sides and legs, and the blood
veins stood out blue on his face; and he cursed and saidGet
into the house, you white-faced bitch!he
wouldn't have her looking at him. So she watched from behind the door,
near sick she felt, it was as though a great frog were squattering there
in the stour, and the hens gathered and squawked about him.
And at last he stood up and staggered to a stone, and
Chris didn't look more, going on with her work as well as she could with
hands that quivered and quivered. But when he came in for supper he
looked much as ever, and grumbled at this and that, and ate his egg as
though it would do him ill, syne got his gun and went off to the hill as
fleet as ever.
He was long up there, Chris went to the window and
watched for him, seeing the August late night close in, Cuddiestoun's
sheep were baaing high up in the Cuddiestoun moor and a sprig of the
honeysuckle that made the Blawearie hedges so bonny through the summer
tapped and touched against the window-pane, it was like a slow hand
tapping there; and the evening was quiet in the blow of the night-wind,
and no sign of father till Chris grew alarmed and nearly went out to
look for him. But then she heard his step in the porch, in he came and
put down his gun and saw her stand there and cried outDamn't
to hell, is that all you've to do, stand about like a lady?So
you could hardly believe there was much wrong with him then, except
ill-nature, he'd plenty of that, you'd no foreseeing that next morning
he'd try to get out of bed and lie paralysed.
She wouldn't in a hurry forget the sight of him then, nor
the run she had down Blawearie brae till the new Knapp came in sight,
brave with its biggings and house. But there at last was Chae Strachan,
he was busied letting a strainer into the ground, smoking, the blue
smoke of his pipe rose into the air, blue, like a pencil-stroke, a cock
was crowing across the Denburn and he didn't hear her cry for a while.
But then he did and was quick enough, he ran up to meet her,What's
wrong, Chris lass?and
she told him and he turned and ran down--Go
back to your father and I'll get to the doctor myself and send the wife
up to Blawearie.
And up she came, the fat, fusionless creature, all she
could do was to stand and gowk at father,Mighty
me, Mr. Guthrie, this is a sore, sore sight, whatever will you do now,
eh?And father mouthed
and mowed at her from the bed as though the first thing he'd be keen on
doing was braining her, paralysis or not he'd still plenty of rage. For
when the doctor came up at last from Bervie and bustled into the room,
peering and poking with the sharp, quick face of him, and his bald head
shining, and snapped in his curt-like way,What's
this? what's wrong with you now, Blawearie?father
managed to speak out then right enough--That's
for you to find out, what the hell do you think you're paid for?
So the doctor grinned behind his hand,One
of you women must help me strip him.And
he looked from Kirsty to Chris and saidYou,
Chris lass,and that she
did while Mrs. Strachan went down to the kitchen to make him tea and
trail around like a clucking hen, God! what might be happening in
Peesie's Knapp without her? Chris lost her temper at last, she lost it
seldom enough, this time it went with a bang--I don't know either
what's happening in Peesie's Knapp but if you're in such tune about it
you'd better go home and find out.Mrs.
Strachan reddened up at that, bubbling like a hubbley-jock, that wasn't
the way for a quean to speak to a woman that might well be her mother,
she might think shame to curse and swear with her father lying at
death's door there. And Chris said she hadn't sworn, but she was
overweary to argie about it, and knew right well that whatever she said
now Mistress Strachan would spread a fine story about her.
And sure as death so she did, it was soon all over the
Howe that that coarse quean at Blawearie had started to swear at
Mistress Strachan while her father was lying near dead in the room above
their heads. Only Chae himself didn't believe it, and when he came up to
Blawearie next day he whispered to Chris,Is't
true you gave Kirsty a bit of a damning yesterday?and
when she said she hadn't he said it was a pity, it was time that
somebody did.
So there father lay and had lain ever since, all those
five weeks he'd lain there half-paralysed, with a whistle beside his bed
when he wanted attention, and God! that was often enough. Creeping to
her bed half-dead at night Chris would find herself thinking a thing
that wouldn't bear a rethinking out here in the sun, with the hum of the
heather-bees, heather-smell in her face, Lord! could she only lie here a
day how she'd sleep and sleep. Fold over her soul and her heart and put
them away with their hours of vexing and caring, the ploughing was done,
she was set to her drilling, and faith! it was weary work!
She started and sighed and took her hands down from her
face and listened again. Far down in Blawearie there rose the blast of
an angry-blown whistle.
She'd thought, running, stumbling up through the moor,
with that livid flush on her cheek, up through the green of the April
day with the bushes misted with cobwebs,I'll
never go back, I'll never go back, I'll drown myself in the loch!Then
she stopped, her heart it seemed near to bursting and terribly below it
moved something, heavy and slow it had been when she ran out from
Blawearie but now it seemed to move and uncoil. Slow, dreadfully, it
moved and changed, like a snake she had once seen up on this hill, and
the sweat broke out on her forehead. Had anything happened with it? Oh
God, there couldn't be anything! If only she hadn't run so, had kept
herself quiet, not struck as she'd done, deaved and angry and mad she
had been!
Sobbing, she fell to a slow walk then, her hand at her
side, and through the gate into the moorland went with slow steps, the
livid flush burning still on her cheek, she felt it was branded there.
Tears had come in her eyes at last, but she wouldn't have them, shook
them off, wouldn't think; and a pheasant flew up beneath her feet,whirroo!as
she came to the mere of the loch. She bent over there through the
rushes, raising her hands to her hair that had come all undone, and
parted it from her face and looked down at her face in the water. It
rippled a moment, it was brown with detritus, at first she could see
nothing of herself but a tremulous amorphousness in the shadow of the
rushes; and then the water cleared, she saw the flush below her
cheek-bone, her own face, strange to her this last month and stranger
now.
Below in Kinraddie the carts were rattling up every
farm-road, driving out dung to the turnip-planting, somewhere there was
a driller on the go, maybe it was Upperhill's, the clank was a deafening
thing. Nine o'clock in the morning and here up on the hill she was, she
didn't know where to go or where to turn.
There were the Standing Stones, so seldom she'd seen them
this last nine months. Cobwebbed and waiting they stood, she went and
leant her cheek against the meikle one, the monster that stood and
seemed to peer over the water and blue distances that went up to the
Grampians. She leant against it, the bruised cheek she leaned and it was
strange and comforting--stranger still when you thought that this old
stone circle more and more as the years went on at Kinraddie, was the
only place where ever she could come and stand back a little from the
clamour of the days. It seemed to her now that she'd had feint the
minute at all to stand and think since that last September day she'd
spent up here, caught and clamped and turning she'd been in the wheel
and grind of the days since father died.
But at the time a thing fine and shining it had been, she
hadn't cared if folk deemed her heartless and godless--fine she thought
it, a prayer prayed and answered, him dead at last with his glooming and
glaring, his whistlings and whisperings.Chris,
do this,andChris,
do thatit went on from
morn till night till but hardly she could drag herself to the foot of
the stairs to heed him.
But a worse thing came as that slow September dragged to
its end, a thing she would never tell to a soul, festering away in a
closet of her mind the memory lay, it would die sometime, everything
died, love and hate; fainter and fainter it had grown this year till but
half she believed it a fancy, those evening fancies when father lay with
the red in his face and his eye on her, whispering and whispering at
her, the harvest in his blood, whispering her to come to him, they'd
done it in Old Testament times, whisperingYou're
my flesh and blood, I can do with you what I will, come to me, Chris, do
you hear?
And she would hear him and stare at him, whispering also,I
won't,they never spoke
but in whispers those evenings. And then she'd slip down from his room,
frightened and frightened, quivering below-stairs while her fancies
raced, starting at every creak that went through the harvest stillness
of Blawearie house, seeing father somehow struggling from his bed, like
a great frog struggling, squattering across the floor, thump, thump on
the stairs, coming down on her while she slept, that madness and
tenderness there in his eyes.
She took to locking her door because of that wild fear.
The morning of the day she woke to find him dead she leaned out from her
bedroom window and heard Long Rob of the Mill, far ayont the parks of
Pessie's Knapp, out even so early, hard at work with his chaving and
singing, singingLadies of
Spainwith a throat as
young and clear as a boy's. She had slept but little that night, because
of the fear upon her and the tiredness, but that singing was sweet to
hear, sweet and heart-breaking, as though the world outside Blawearie
were singing to her, telling her this thing in the dark, still house
could never go on, no more than a chance and an accident it was in the
wind-loved world of men.
She got into her clothes then, clearer-headed, and
slipped down to the kitchen and put on the kettle and milked the kye and
then made breakfast. Below the windows the parks stood cut and stooked
and trim, Ellison and Chae and Long Rob had done that, good neighbours
John Guthrie had, had he never aught else. There came no movement from
father's room, he was sleeping long, and setting the tray with porridge
and milk she hoped he'd have nothing to say, just glower and eat, she'd
slip away then.
So she went up the stair and into his room without
knocking, he hated knocking and all such gentry-like notions, she put
down the tray and saw he was dead. For a moment she looked and then
turned to the curtains and drew them, and took the tray in her hand
again, no sense in leaving it there, and went down and ate a good
breakfast, slowly and enjoyingly she ate and felt quiet and happy, even
though she fell fast asleep in her chair and awoke to find it gone nine.
She lay and looked at her outspread arms a while, dimpled and brown,
soft-skinned with the play of muscles below them. Sleep? She could sleep
as she chose now, often and long.
Then she tidied the kitchen and found a spare sheet and
went out to the hedge above the road and spread the sheet there, the
sign she'd arranged with Chae should she need him. In an hour or so, out
in his parks he saw it and came hurrying up to Blawearie, crying to her
halfway upChris, lass,
what's wrong?Then only
she realized she hadn't yet spoken that day to a soul, wondered if her
voice would shake and break, it didn't, was ringing and clear as a bell
crying down to Chae,My
father's dead.
It was fair a speak in Kinraddie, her coolness, she knew
that well but she didn't care, she was free at last. And when Mistress
Munro, her that came to wash down the corpse, poked out her futret face
and said,A body would
hardly think to look at you that your father was new dead,Chris
looked at the dark, coarse creature and saw her so clearly as she'd
never done before, she'd never had time to look at a soul through her
own eyes before, Chris-come-here and Chris-go-there. Not a pringle of
anger she felt, just smiled and saidWouldn't
you, now, Mistress Munro?and
watched her at work and watched her go, not caring a fig what she
thought and did. Then she roused herself for a while, free yet she could
hardly be for a day or so, and got ready the big room for Auntie Janet
and her man to sleep in, medals and all, when they came down to the
funeral.
Down the next day they came, the two of them, Auntie as
cheery as ever, Uncle as fat, he'd another bit medal stuck on his chain;
and when they saw she wasn't sniftering or weeping they put off the long
decent faces they'd set for her sight, and told her the news, Dod and
Alec did fine and had sent their love. And Auntie said they must sell up
the things at Blawearie and Chris come and bide with them in the North,
some brave bit farmer would soon marry her there.
And Chris said neither yea nor nay, but smiled at them,
biding her time, waiting till she found if a will had been left by
father. Chae Strachan and old Sinclair of Netherhill saw to the funeral,
old Sinclair moving so slow up the road, you'd half think he'd stop and
take root, clean agony it was to watch him, and his face so pitted and
old, father had been young by the like of him. And Mr. Gibbon came over
to see her, he'd been drinking a fell lot of late, folk said, maybe that
accounted for the fact that as he crossed the twilit brae he was singing
out loud to himself, Auntie heard the singing and ran up and out and hid
in the lithe of a stack to try and make out what he sang. But he left
off then and left her fair vexed, she said later she could have sworn it
was a song they sang in the bothies about the bedding of a lad and a
lass.
But Chris didn't care, keeping that secret resolve she'd
made warm and clean and unsoiled in her heart, taking it out only alone
to look at it, that old-time dream of hers. She'd never looked at
herself so often or so long as now she did, the secret shining deep in
her eyes, she saw her face thinner and finer than of yore, no yokel face
it seemed. So she cared nothing for Mr. Gibbon and his singing, the
great curly brute and his breath that smelt so bad, he went up with her
to father's room where father lay in his coffin, in a fine white shirt
and a tie, his beard combed out and decent and jutting up, you'd say in
a minute he'd raise those dead eyelids and whisper at you.
Down on his knees the minister went, the great curly
bull, and began to pray, Chris hesitated a minute and looked at the
floor, and then, canny-like, when he wasn't seeing her, dusted a patch
and herself knelt down. But she didn't heed a word he was saying,
honeysuckle smell was drifting in on the air from the night, up on the
hills the dog of some ploughman out poaching was barking and barking
itself to a fair hysteria following the white blink of some rabbit's
tail, in the closing dark she could see across the brae's shoulder the
red light of Kinraddie House shine like a quiet star. So the curly bull
prayed and boomed beside her, it was what he was paid for, she neither
listened nor cared.
And that brought the funeral, it was raining early in the
dawn when they woke, a fine drizzle that seeped and seeped from the sky,
so soft and fine you'd think it snow without whiteness; there was no sun
at all at first but it came up at last, a red ball, and hung there so
till ten o'clock brought up the first of the funeral folk, and that was
Chae, and his father-in-law, syne Ellison and Maitland in a gig they
loosed in the corn-yard, setting the sholtie to graze. And Ellison cried
out, but low and decent,I'll
leave him here, me dear, sure he'll be all right, won't he?and
Chris smiled and saidFine,
Mr. Ellison,and he
goggled his eyes, Irish as ever, you could never change Erbert Ellison,
not even for the worse, folk said.
Next there came a whole drove of folk, the factor, the
minister, Cuddiestoun with his ill-marled face like a potato-park dug in
coarse weather, but a fine white front, new-starched, to cover his
working sark, and cuffs that fair chafed his meikle red hands, right
decent, and he'd on fine yellow boots on his meikle feet. Rob of the
Mill and Alec Mutch came next, you could hear their tongues from the
foot of Blawearie brae, folk were affronted and went out and criedWheest-wheest!down
to them, and Rob called backWhat
is't?and faith! it would
have been better if they'd been left alone, what with the wheesting and
whispering that rose.
But they were real good, Rob bringing a bottle of whisky,
Glenlivet it was, and Alec a half-bottle, they whisked them over to
Uncle Tam when nobody looked; or anyway not a body but looked the other
way and spoke, canny-like, of the weather. The kitchen was fair crowded,
so was the room, like a threshing-day, folk sat and each had a dram, Mr.
Gibbon saidSpirits? Yes,
thank you, I'll have a drop,there'd
have been barely enough to go round but for Rob and Alec. Then they
heard another gig come up the hill, it was Gordon's from Upperhill, him
and his foreman. Uncle Tam winked at the whisky.You'll
have a dram, Upperhill, you and your man?but
Mr. Gordon said, sniffy-like,I
hardly think it shows respect and Ewan's tee-tee as well.
Long Rob of the Mill sat next the door, he winked at
Chris and then at Ewan Tavendale, Ewan turned fair red and said nothing.
So he hadn't a dram, he'd have liked one fine, Chris guessed, and felt
mean and pleased and shy, and then gave herself a shake inside, what did
it matter to her? Then the minister looked at his watch and the
undertaker came in about, and then last of all, they hadn't expected the
poor old stock, there was Pooty on the doorstep, he'd on a clean collar
and shirt and an old hat, green but well-brushed; and when Uncle
whispered if he'd have a dram he saidOch,
ay, it's the custom, isn't it?and
had two.
The undertaker had gone up by then, Uncle with him, folk
followed them one by one and came down, syne Auntie beckoned Chris to
the neuk of the stair and saidWould
you like to see him before he's screwed down?
Uncle Tam and Long Rob of the Mill were there and as
Chris went in Long Rob saidWell,
well, good-bye, Blawearie man,and
shook father's hand, his eyes looked queer when he turned away, he saidHe
was a fine neighbourand
went out and closed the door. Chris stood and looked at her father,
seeing him so plain as never in life she'd seen him, he'd been
over-restless for that and quick enough he'd have raged at you had you
glowered at his face like this.
Still enough now, never-moving there in the coffin, he
seemed to have changed already since he died, the face sunk in, it
wasn't John Guthrie and yet it was. Uncle whispered behind her, him and
the undertaker, and then Auntie was beside her.They're
to screw it down now, kiss your father, Chris.But
she shook her head, she couldn't do that, the room was still as they
looked at her, for a moment she felt almost sick again as in those
evening hours whenthatin
the coffin had lain and whispered that she should lie with it. Then she
just saidGood-bye, father,and
turned from him and went down to her own room and put on her coat and
hat, it wasn't decent for a quean to go to a funeral, folk said, but in
Blawearie's case there was no son or brother to see him into the
kirkyard.
Chae and Long Rob and Ellison and Gordon carried the
coffin down to the stair-foot, and settled it on their shoulders there,
and went slow with it out through the front door then; and the rain held
off a little, wind blowing in their faces, though, as they held down the
hill. Behind walked the Reverend Gibbon, bare-headed, all the folk were
bare-headed but Chris, Long Rob and Chae stepping easily and cannily,
Ellison as well, but Gordon quivering at his coffin corner, he'd have
done better with a dram to steady him up. But Chris walked free and
uncaring, soon as the burial was over she'd be free as never in her life
she'd been, she lifted her face to the blow of the wet September wind
and the world that was free to her.
Then it was that she saw Ewan Tavendale walked beside
her, he glanced down just then and straight and fair up into his eyes
she looked, she nearly stumbled in the slow walk because of that
looking. They came to the turnpike then, there Ewan took Gordon's corner
and Alec Mutch Ellison's, and these two fell back beside the minister,
but Chae and Long Rob shook their heads when others offered to change
with them, they'd manage fine.
The rain still held off, presently the wind soughing down
the Howe died away and a little peek of sun came through, not down the
Denburn it came but high up in the hill peaks, the lost, coarse ground
where never a soul lived or passed but some shepherd or gillie, you
could see them far off, lone and lonesome there on a still, clear day.
Maybe so the dead walked in a still clear, deserted land, the coarse
lands of death where only the chance wanderer showed his face, Chris
thought, and the dead lapwings wheeled and cried against another sun.
Then she ceased from that, startled out a moment from the calm that had
come to her with her father's dying--daft to dream these things now when
she planned so much. Step, step, steadily and cannily went Long Rob and
Chae, Chae getting bald and sandy in the crown, but Rob still with the
corn hair clustered thick and the great moustaches swinging from his
cheeks as they turned up the road that led to the kirkyard.
Then the sun went again, it was eleven o'clock perhaps,
and Chris raised her eyes and saw through the trees the blinded windows
of the Mains, the curtains were all drawn, decent-like, in respect for
the funeral; and she felt a queer, sick thrill just below her left
breast, not ill or sick, but just like a starting of the blood there, as
though she'd leant on that place too long, and it had grown numb. It was
dark under the yews, they dripped on the coffin and Long Rob, then there
came a pattering as they passed by slow beneath, and Chris saw the long,
oval leaves suddenly begin to quiver, it was as though a hand shook
them, and through the leaves was the sky, it had blackened over and the
rain was coming driving in a sheet down the brae from the Grampian
haughs. It came and whipped the wet skirts about her legs, she saw Long
Rob and Chae and Ewan stagger and then stand leaning against the drift,
and then go on, not a soul put on his hat, there'd be bad colds by night
and ill-tunes over this funeral yet.
That wasn't decent to think, but what did it matter to
her? She wished she were back in Blawearie, and hoped the minister would
not be over long-winded when he said his say. There was the
grave-digger, a man from the Mains, a big scrawny childe who lived ill
with his wife, folk said, he had his coat collar up and came out below
the eaves of the kirk and motioned them along a path. And ben it they
went, then Chris saw the grave, red clay and bright it was, not as she'd
expected his grave somehow to be, they weren't burying him in mother's
grave. For that land was over-crowded, folk said that every time the
grave-digger stuck his bit spade in the ground some bone or another from
the dead of olden time would come spattering out, fair scunnering you.
But this was an old enough bit as well, right opposite rose the stone
with the cross-bones, maybe all the dead bodies had long mouldered away
into red clay here, clay themselves, and folk were glad they left the
earth free for new-comers.
Uncle had come to her elbow then and he stood with her,
the others stood back, it was strange and silent but for the soft patter
of the rain on the yews and the Reverend Gibbon shielding his Bible away
from the wet drive of it, beginning to read. And Chris listened, her
head bent against the rain's whisper, to the words that promised
Resurrection and Life through Jesus Christ our Lord, who had died long
syne in Palestine and had risen on the third day and would take from
that thing that had been John Guthrie quick, and was now John Guthrie
dead, the quickness and give it habitation again.
And Chris thought of her dream looking up at the coarse
lands of the hills and thinking of the lands of death, was that where
Christ would meet with father? Unco and strange to think, standing here
in the rain and listening to that voice, that father himself was there
in that dark box heaped with the little flowers that folk had sent,
father whom they were to leave here happed in red clay, alone in
darkness and earth when the night came down. Surely he'd be back waiting
her up in Blawearie, she'd hear his sharp, vexed voice and see him come
fleetly out of the house, that red beard of his cocked as ever at the
world he'd fought so dourly and well--
Somebody chaved at her hand then, it was the
grave-digger, he was gentle and strangely kind, and she looked down and
couldn't see, for now she was crying, she hadn't thought she would ever
cry for father, but she hadn't known, she hadn't known this thing that
was happening to him! She found herself praying then, blind with tears
in the rain, lowering the cord with the hand of the grave-digger over
hers, the coffin dirling below the spears of the rain.Father,
father, I didn't know! Oh father, I didn't KNOW!
She hadn't known, she'd been dazed and daft with her
planning, her days could never be aught without father; and she minded
then, wildly, in a long, broken flash of remembrance, all the fine
things of him that the years had hidden from their sight, the fleetness
of him and his justice, and the fight unwearying he'd fought with the
land and its masters to have them all clad and fed and respectable, he'd
never rested working and chaving for them, only God had beaten him in
the end.
And she minded the long roads he'd tramped to the kirk
with her when she was young, how he'd smiled at her and called her his
lass in days before the world's fight and the fight of his own flesh
grew over-bitter, and poisoned his love to hate.Oh
father, I didn't know!she
prayed again, and then that was over, she was in the drive of the rain,
hard and tearless, the grave-digger was pointing to the ground and she
picked up a handful of soft, wet earth, and heard the Reverend Gibbon's
voice drone outDust to
dust, ashes to ashes,and
leant over the grave and dropped the wet earth; and then the
grave-digger was throwing in the turf, the coffin rang as though it were
hollow, she stared at it till Uncle had her by the elbow, speaking to
her, and so was the Reverend Gibbon but she couldn't hear them at first;
and folk were to say she must have been real fond of her father after
all, the best of a coarse bit family in the end.
And then she was walking back through the kirkyard and
the folk at the gate were stopping to shake her hand, Long Rob and Chae
to say they'd aye help her, and Ellison, kind and solemn and Irish, and
old Sinclair dripping in the rain, he should never have been out in a
day like this. The last was Ewan Tavendale, he saidTa-ta,
Chris,his hand was wet
meeting hers as her own hand was, but he put up his left hand as well as
his right and held both of hers a minute; and he didn't look ashamed and
shy any more, but as though he was so sorry he'd help her in any way,
not only the ways he could.
That was the last of them she saw and the end of father's
funeral. Back in Blawearie Auntie Janet made her strip from her clothes
and get into bed,God be
here, it's you that'll be next in your grave!she
cried. And Chris slept throughout the remainder of that day, undreaming,
she didn't wake till late in the night, Blawearie listening and
hearkening about her. And then she was afraid, awfully afraid, sitting
up in bed and hearkening to that Something that walked the house with
sharp, quick footsteps, running so fleetly up the stairs, impatient and
unresting, a shadow with footfalls that were shadows; and into the night
and far towards the dawn it roamed the house of Blawearie till the cocks
were crowing and Uncle and Auntie moving, and Chris didn't feel afraid
at all by then, only lay and wept softly for the father she'd never
helped and forgot to love.
And the next forenoon the lawyer man came down from
Stonehaven, it was Peter Semple, folk called him Simple Simon but swore
that he was a swick. Father had trusted him, though, and faith! you'd be
fell straight in your gait ere John Guthrie trusted you. Not that he'd
listened to advice, father, he'd directed a will be made and the things
to be set in that will; and when Mr. Semple had said he was being fell
sore on some of his family father had told him to mind his own business,
and that was a clerk's.
So Mr. Semple drew up the will, it had been just after
Will went off to the Argentine, and father had signed it; and now the
Blawearie folk sat down in the parlour, with whisky and biscuits for Mr.
Semple, to hear it read. It was short and plain as you please, Chris
watched the face of her uncle as the lawyer read and saw it go white in
the gills, he'd expected something far different from that. And the will
told that John Guthrie left all his possessions, in silver and
belongings, to his daughter Christine, to be hers without let or
condition, Mr. Semple her guardian in such law matters as needed one,
but Chris to control the goods and gear as she pleased. And folk were to
say, soon as Kinraddie heard of the will, and faith! they seemed to have
heard it all before it was well out of the envelope, that it was an unco
will, old Guthrie had been fair spiteful to his sons, maybe Will would
dispute his sister's tocher.
The money was over three hundred pounds in the bank, it
was hard to believe that father could have saved all that. But he had;
and Chris sat and stared at the lawyer, hearing him explain and explain
this, that, and the next, in the way of lawyers: they presume you're a
fool and double their fees. Three hundred pounds! And now she could do
as she'd planned, she'd go up to the College again and pass her exams
and go on to Aberdeen and get her degrees, come out as a teacher and
finish with the filthy soss of a farm. She'd sell up the gear of
Blawearie, the lease was dead, it had died with father, oh! she was free
and free to do as she liked and dream as she liked at last!
And it was pity now that she'd all she wanted she felt no
longer that fine thrill that had been with her while she made her secret
plans. It was as though she'd lost it down in Kinraddie kirkyard; and
she sat and stared so still and white at the lawyer man that he closed
up his case with a snap.So
think it well over, Christine,he
said and she roused and saidOh,
I'll do that;and off he
went, Uncle Tam drew a long, deep breath, as though fair near choked
he'd beenNot
a word of his two poor, motherless boys!
It seemed he'd expected Alex and Dod would be left their
share, maybe that was why he'd been so eager to adopt them the year
before. But Auntie criedFor
shame, Tam, how are they motherless now that I've got them? And you'll
come up and live with us when you've sold Blawearie's furnishings,
Chris?And her voice was
kind but her eyes were keen, Chris looked at her with her own eyes hard,Ay,
maybe,and got up and slipped from the room,I'll
go down and bring home the kye.
And out she went, though it wasn't near kye-time yet, and
wandered away over the fields; it was a cold and louring day, the sound
of the sea came plain to her, as though heard in a shell, Kinraddie
wilted under the greyness. In the ley field old Bod stood with his tail
to the wind, his hair ruffled up by the wind, his head bent away from
the smore of it. He heard her pass and gave a bit neigh, but he didn't
try to follow her, poor brute, he'd soon be over old for work. The wet
fields squelched below her feet, oozing up their smell of red clay from
under the sodden grasses, and up in the hills she saw the trail of the
mist, great sailing shapes of it, going south on the wind into Forfar,
past Laurencekirk they would sail, down the wide Howe with its sheltered
glens and its late, drenched harvests, past Brechin smoking against its
hill, with its ancient tower that the Pictish folk had reared, out of
the Mearns, sailing and passing, sailing and passing, she minded Greek
words of forgotten lessons, Παντα ρει,Nothing
endures.
And then a queer thought came to her there in the drooked
fields, that nothing endured at all, nothing but the land she passed
across, tossed and turned and perpetually changed below the hands of the
crofter folk since the oldest of them had set the Standing Stones by the
loch of Blawearie and climbed there on their holy days and saw their
terraced crops ride brave in the wind and sun. Sea and sky and the folk
who wrote and fought and were learnéd, teaching and saying and praying,
they lasted but as a breath, a mist of fog in the hills, but the land
was forever, it moved and changed below you, but was forever, you were
close to it and it to you, not at a bleak remove it held you and hurted
you. And she had thought to leave it all!
She walked weeping then, stricken and frightened because
of that knowledge that had come on her, she could never leave it, this
life of toiling days and the needs of beasts and the smoke of wood fires
and the air that stung your throat so acrid, Autumn and Spring, she was
bound and held as though they had prisoned her here. And her fine bit
plannings!--they'd been just the dreamings of a child over toys it
lacked, toys that would never content it when it heard the smore of a
storm or the cry of sheep on the moors or smelt the pringling smell of a
new-ploughed park under the drive of a coulter. She could no more teach
a school than fly, night and day she'd want to be back, for all the fine
clothes and gear she might get and hold, the books and the light and
learning.
The kye were in sight then, they stood in the lithe of
the freestone dyke that ebbed and flowed over the shoulder of the long
ley field, and they hugged to it close from the drive of the wind, not
heeding her as she came among them, the smell of their bodies foul in
her face--foul and known and enduring as the land itself. Oh, she hated
and loved in a breath! Even her love might hardly endure, but beside it
the hate was no more than the whimpering and fear of a child that
cowered from the wind in the lithe of its mother's skirts.
And again that night she hardly slept, thinking and
thinking till her head ached, the house quiet enough now, without
fairlies treading the stairs, she felt cool and calm, if only she could
sleep. But by morning she knew she couldn't go on with Uncle and Auntie
beside her, they smothered her over with their years and their canny
supposings. Quick after breakfast she dressed and came down and Auntie
cried out, real sharp-like,Mighty
be here, Chris, where are you going?as
though she owned Blawearie stick and stone, hoof and hide. And Chris
looked at her coolly,I'm
away to Stonehaven to see Mr. Semple, can I bring you anything?
Uncle Tam rose up from the table then, goggling, with his
medals clinking,Away to
Stonehive? What are you jaunting there for? I'll transact any business
you have.Their faces
reddened up with rage, she saw plain as daylight how near it lay,
dependence on them, she felt herself go white as she looked at themI'll
transact my own business fine,she
said hardly, and calledTa-tafrom
the door and heard no answer and held down the Blawearie road and ran
over the parks to the station, and caught the early scholar's train that
went to Stonehaven Academy.
It was crowded fell close, there were three-four scholars
in the carriage she got in to, she didn't know any, they were learning
French verbs. And she'd wanted to go back to things as silly!
They were past Drumlithie and the Carmont then, you could
smell the woods of Dunnottar and look out at them from the window,
girdling Stonehaven down to its bay, shining and white, the sun was out
on the woods and the train like a weasel slipped through the wet smell
of them. And there was Stonehaven itself, the home of the poverty toffs,
folk said, where you might live in sin as much as you pleased but were
damned to hell if you hadn't a white sark. She'd heard Chae Strachan say
that, but it wasn't all true, there were fell poor folk in Stonehaven as
well as the come-ups; and douce folk that were neither poor nor proud
and had never a say when Stonehaven boomed of its braveness. And that it
did fair often, the Mearns' capital, awful proud of its sarks but not of
its slums and it thought itself real genteel, and a fine seafront it had
that the English came to in summer--daft, as usual, folk said, hadn't
they a sea in England?
Because it was early in the day and the lawyer's office
still shut Chris loitered on the road in the tail of the hasting
scholars, the little things they were, all legs and long boots, funny
how they tried to speak English one to the other, looking sideways as
they cried the words to see if folk thought them gentry. Had Marget and
she been daft as that?
But the sun was out now on the long Stonehaven streets
and Chris went past the Academy down to the market, still at that hour
with just a stray cat or so on the sniff around, genteel and toff-like,
Stonehaven, cats. Down through a lane she caught a glimmer of the North
Sea then or maybe it was the sunlight against the sky, but the smell of
the sea came up. And she still had plenty of time.
So she went down to the shore, the tide was out,
thundering among the rocks, not a soul on the beach but herself, gulls
flying and crying, the sun strong and warm. She sat on a seat in the
glow of it and shut her eyes and was happy. Below her feet the ground
drummed and trembled with reverberations from that far-off siege of the
rocks that the sea was making out there by the point of the bay, it was
strange to feel it and be of it, maybe folk there were who felt for the
sea as last night she had felt in the rain-drenched fields of Kinraddie.
But to her it seemed restless, awaiting and abiding nowhither, not fine
like the glens that nestled and listened high up the coarse country, or
the parks sun-heavy with clover that waited your feet at evening.
She fell asleep then, she slept there two hours in the
sun and woke feeling fresher than she'd done since father's funeral. So
hungry also she felt she couldn't wait the ending of the business she'd
come on but went into a tea-house up in the square, two women kept it,
old bodies they were that moved backward and forward the room, slow and
rheumatic. One looked like the cats she'd seen in the square that
morning, sleeked and stroked, the other was thin as a lathe, their
tea-room looked scrubbed and clean and their tea had a taste to match.
They were sharp and stroked and genteel, Chris thought for the first
time then in her life how awful it would be to grow old like them, old
maids without men, without ever having lain with a man, or had him kiss
you and hold you, and be with you, and have children of his, or the arm
of a man when you needed it, kind and steadfast and strong. If she'd
lived her plan to train as a teacher she'd have grown like them.
She might grow so still! she thought, and daft-like
suddenly felt quite feared, she paid for her tea in a hurry and went out
to the square again, thinking of herself as an old maid, it wouldn't
bear thinking about. So she hurried to the office of Simple Simon and a
little clerk asked her business, perky-like, and she looked at him
coolly and said her business was Mr. Semple's. And then she minded the
old maids, was she herself one by nature? And in a cold fear she smiled
at the clerk, desperately, with her lips and eyes, it was fine, the boy
smiled also and blushed and thawed, and saidSit
doom, this is fine and comfortable;and
pulled out a padded chair for her; and down she sat, light-hearted
again. Then the clerk came back and led her through a passage to
Semple's room, he looked busy enough, with a telephone beside him and
heaps of papers, and rows of little black boxes round the shelves. Then
he rose and shook hands,Well,
well, it's Miss Guthrie come up; you've been thinking of the will, no
doubt?
She told him, Yes, just that; and she was going to live
on at Blawearie a while, not roup the gear out at once, could he see to
that with the factor?
He stared at her with his mouth fallen open,But
you can't live there alone!
She told him she'd no such intention, couldn't he get her
some woman come live with her, some old bit body who'd be glad of a
home?
He saidOh,
God, there are plenty of them!and
began to chew at his mouser.
She told him it mightn't be for more than a month or so,
till she'd made up her mind, just.
He said absent-like,Just?
Hell, a woman's mind just!and
then pulled himself up right sudden as she looked at him hardly and
cool. Then he argued a bit, but Chris hardly listened, father's will had
said she could do what she liked.
And presently, seeing she cared not a fig for him, Semple
gave in and said he'd settle up with the factor, and he knew an old
widow body, Melon, he'd send down to Blawearie the morn.
So Chris saidThank
you, good-bye,and went
out from the office, cool as she'd come, the sun was a fell blaze then
and the streets chock-a-block with sheep, great droves of them, driven
in to the weekly mart. Collies were running hither and yon, silent and
cocked of ear, clean and quick as you'd wish, paying heed to none but
shepherd and sheep. Drovers and beasts, they took a good look at Chris
both, as she stood in her black clothes watching them; and just as she
wondered what she'd do next, walk down to the sea and sit on a bench
till it neared to dinnertime in the hotels, or go up to the station and
take the 11.0, a gig going by slowed down of a sudden, a man jumped down
and cried back to the driver.
The man that had jumped was the foreman at Upperhill,
Ewan Tavendale, the driver old Gordon himself, he looked in a rage about
something. And he criedMind
the time then!and gave
Chris a sore glower and drove spanking away.
And then Ewan had crossed the pavement and was standing
in front of her, he lifted his cap and said, shy-like,Hello!Chris
saidHello,and they
looked at each other, he was blushing, she minded the last time, she
didn't like him half as she'd done at the funeral. He saidAre
you in for the day?and
she mocked him, not knowing why she did that, it wasn't decent and
father new dead,Och ay,
just that.He blushed
some more, she felt cool and queerly giddy in a breath, looking at the
fool of a lad, folk were glowering at them both they were later to
learn, not Gordon only but Ellison: and back the two of them went to
Kinraddie and told every soul it was a sore shame there wasn't somebody
about to heed to the Guthrie girl from the hands of that coarse tink
brute, Ewan Tavendale.
But they hadn't known that and mightn't have cared,
suddenly Chris felt herself hungry again, happy as well, not caring
about Ewan himself but not wanting either he should leave her and go on
to the mart. She saidI'm
going up to the Inn for dinner,and
he looked at her, still shy, but with a kind of smoulder in the shyness,
his eyes like the smoulder of a burning whin--Maybe we can eat
together?And she said,
as he turned by her side,Oh,
maybe. But what will Mr. Gordon do?And
Ewan said he could dance a jig on the head of the mart with sheer rage,
for all he cared.
So in they went to old Mother White's, not that they saw
the old body herself; and there was a fine room to eat in, with white
cloths set, and a canary that sang above them, the windows fast closed
to the dust and dirt. And they'd broth, it was good, and the oat-cakes
better; and then boiled beef and potatoes and turnip; and then rice
pudding with prunes; and then some tea, Ewan found his tongue as they
drank the tea and said to-day was his holiday, for he'd worked all the
last Sunday on a job libbing lambs. And Chris said, it was out of her
mouth before she thought,So
you're in no hurry to be back?and
Ewan leaned across the table, the smoulder near kindled to a fire,Not
unless you should be? What train are you taking up to Kinraddie?
And then how it all came about, their planning to spend
the day together and their walk to Dunnottar, Chris never knew, maybe
neither did Ewan. But half an hour later, Stonehaven a blinding white
glimmer behind, Dunnottar in front, they were climbing down the path
that led to the island. The air was blind with the splash of the
incoming tide, above you the rock rose sheer as the path wound downwards
sheer; and high up, crowning the rock were the ruins of the castle
walls, splashed with sunlight and the droppings of sea-birds. Gulls
there were everywhere, Chris was deafened in the clamour of the brutes,
but quiet enough in the castle it proved, not a soul seemed visiting
there but themselves.
They paid their shillings and the old man came with them
from room to room, a scunner to Ewan, Chris guessed, for his eyes kept
wandering, wearied, to her from this ruin and that. In walls little
slits rose up, through these it was that in olden times the garrisons
had shot their arrows at besiegers; and down below, in the dungeons,
were the mouldering clefts where a prisoner's hands were nailed while
they put him to torment. There the Covenanting folk had screamed and
died while the gentry dined and danced in their lithe, warm halls, Chris
stared at the places, sick and angry and sad for those folk she could
never help now, that hatred of rulers and gentry a flame in her heart,
John Guthrie's hate. Her folk and his they had been, those whose names
stand graved in tragedy:
HERE : LYES : IOHN : STOT : IAMES : ATCHI
SON : IAMES : RUSSELL : & WILLIAM : BRO
UN : AND : ONE : WHOSE : NAME : WEE :
HAVE : NOT : GOTTEN : AND :
TWO :
WOMEN : WHOSE : NAMES : ALSO : WEE :
KNOW : NOT : AND : TWO : WHO : PERISHD :
COMEING : DOUNE : THE : ROCK : ONE :
WHOSE : NAME : WAS : IAMES : WATSON
THE : OTHER : NOT : KNOWN : WHO : ALL :
DIED : PRISONERS : IN : DUNNOTTAR :
CASTLE : ANNO : 1685 : FOR : THEIR :
ADHERENCE : TO : THE : WORD : OF : GOD :
AND : SCOTLANDS :
COVENANTED :
WORK : OF : REFORMATION :
REV : II CH : 12 VERSE
But Ewan whispered,Oh,
let's get out of this,though
it was he himself that had planned they come to Dunnottar. So out in the
sun, at the shelving entrance, they stood awhile in the cry of the
gulls; and then Ewan saidCome
down to the sea: I know a nook.
And they climbed down and then up again, along the
cliff-edge, it made you dizzy to look over and down at the incoming wash
of froth, and sometimes, far under their feet, there rose a loudboom!like
a gun going off. Ewan said that the rocks were sometimes hollow and the
water ran far below the fields, so that ploughmen ploughed above the sea
and in stormy weather they'd sometimes see their furrows quiver from
that storm that raged under their feet. So they came to a crumbling
path, it seemed to fall sheer away, a seagull sailed up to meet them,
and Ewan with his feet already out of sight turned back and asked,You'll
not be dizzy?And Chris
shook her head and followed him, it seemed to her between sea and sky,
down and down, and then Ewan was gripping her ankle, she swung almost
loose for a moment, looking down in his face, it was white and strained,
then her foot and hand caught again, Ewan called that it wasn't much
further; and they got to the bottom and sat and looked at each other on
a ledge of sand.
The sun poured in there, the tide whispered and splashed
and threw out its hands at them on the sand, but it didn't come further
up. And Chris saw that the place was closed in, you couldn't see a thing
of the coast but the rocks overhanging, and only a segment of the sea
itself a mile or so out a boat had tacked, it flashed its wings like a
wheeling gull; and Ewan was sitting beside her, peeling an orange.
They ate it together and Chris took off her hat, she felt
hot and uncouth in her sad black clothes. And suddenly, for no reason,
she thought of a time, years before, when she'd been trampling blankets
for mother a fine summer day in May, and had taken off her skirts and
her mother had come out and laughed at her,You'd
make a fine lad!It was
as though she heard mother speak, she looked up and around, daftly,
dazed-like a moment, but there was not a soul near but Ewan Tavendale
lying on an elbow, looking at the sea, the sun in his face, young and
smooth with its smouldering eyes. And she found she didn't mislike him
any longer, she felt queer and strange to him, not feared, but as though
he was to say something in a moment that she knew she couldn't answer.
And then he said it, blushing, but his smouldering eyes didn't waver,Chris,
do you like me a bit?
Can't thole you at all, that's why we're out lazing in
this place together.
But a nervousness came on her, not that she feared him,
she'd known all along she was safe with Ewan as Mollie with Will in
those long-gone days of the court at Drumlithie. Only, it was as though
her blood ran so clear and with such a fine, sweet song in her veins she
must hold her breath and heark to it; and for the first time she knew
the strange thing her hand was, held there dripping sand, it seemed as
though all her body sat a little apart from herself, and she looked at
it, wondering. So it was that she knew she liked him, loved him as they
said in the soppy English books, you were shamed and a fool to say that
in Scotland. Ewan Tavendale--that it should be him! And then she minded
something, it didn't matter at all, but she wanted to know for all that.Ewan,
was it true that story they told about you and old Sarah Sinclair?
It was as though she had belted him in the face. He went
white then, funnily white leaving brown the red tan in the little
creases of his face that the coarse field weather had made; and he sat
up, angrily, and glowered at her, the great black cat, so sleeked and
quick to anger. And the feeling she'd had for him, that dizziness that
made earth and sea and her heart so light, quite went from her. She saidOh,
I don't want to know,and
began to hum to herself; and then Ewan reached out his hand and gripped
her arm, it hurt, he saidDamn
well listen now that you've asked me.And
it was awful, awful and terrible, she didn't want to listen to him,
covering her face with her hands, he went on and on and then stopped at
last--Now you're frightened, frightened that a
woman should feel like that, maybe some day you'll feel it yourself.
She jumped to her feet then, angry as him, forgetting to
feel ashamed.Maybe I
will, but when I do I'll get a better man than you to serve me!And
before he could answer that she had caught up her hat and was up the
cliff path so quick she didn't know how she did it, her fingers and feet
were nimble and sure, she heard Ewan cry below her and paid no need. He
was barely half-way up when she reached the top and looked down, and
then the rage quite went from her, she leaned over the edge instead,
holding down her hand, and he caught it and smiled, and they stood and
panted and smiled one at the other, fools again as they'd been in the
market-square of Stonehaven.
But suddenly Ewan whipped out his watch,God,
it must be getting fell late,and
as he said it the sunshine went. Chris raised her head and saw why,
they'd been sitting down there in the last of it, the gloaming was down
on the countryside and the noise of the gulls rising up through the
mirk. Ewan caught her hand and they ran by the cliff-edge of the
gloaming-stilled parks, there were great dappled kye that stopped their
grazing to look; and up in front, dark and uncanny, they saw Dunnottar
rise on its rock. And then they reached the main road and slowed down,
but she still left her hand in Ewan's.
And in Stonehaven they caught by the skin of the teeth
the six o'clock train, the mart was long over and folk gone home. In the
carriage were only themselves all the way to Kinraddie, Ewan sat on the
opposite seat, she liked him sit there, liked him not wanting to hold
her hand, she'd have hated him touch her now. And they didn't say a word
till they neared Kinraddie, and then he saidChrissie!
Tired?and she saidLosh,
no, and my name's Chris, Ewan.Then
she saw him blush again in the flicker of the gaslight; and a strange,
sweet surge of pity came on her, she leant over and patted his knee, he
was only a boy in spite of his Sarah Sinclair.
But she thought of Sarah all the same that night, lying
listening in bed to the coming of the rain again, a wet winter it
promised the Howe. So women were like that when they didn't have the men
they wanted?--many of them maybe like that, hiding it away even from
themselves till a summer of heat drove on here and there to such acts as
affronted Kinraddie. But she didn't feel affronted, it was maybe because
she was over young, had read over many of the books, had been the
English Chris as well as this one that lay thinking of Ewan; and the old
ways of sinning and winning, having your own pleasure and standing
affronted at other folk having theirs, seemed often daft to her. Sarah
Sinclair might well have obliged her and met with some other lad than
Ewan that August night; but then she wasn't to know Chris Guthrie would
ever lie and think of him in her bed, hearing the batter of the rain
against her window and the swish of the great Blawearie trees.
It was then, in a lull of the swishing, she heard the
great crack of thunder that opened the worst storm that had struck the
Howe in years. It was far up, she thought, and yet so close Blawearie's
stones seemed falling about her ears, she half-scrambled erect. Outside
the night flashed, flashed and flashed, she saw Kinraddie lighted up and
fearful, then it was dark again, but not quiet. In the sky outside a
great beast moved and purred and scrabbled, and then suddenly it opened
its mouth again and again there was the roar, and the flash of its
claws, tearing at the earth, it seemed neither house nor hall could
escape. The rain had died away, it was listening--quiet in the next
lull, and then Chris heard her Auntie crying to herAre
you all right, Chrissie?and
cried back she was fine. Funny Uncle Tam had cried never a word, maybe
he was still in the sulks, he'd plumped head-first in when he'd heard of
the old woman that Semple was sending to help keep house in Blawearie.
They were off to Auchterless the morn, and oh! she'd be glad to see them
go, she'd enough to do and to think without fighting relations.
The thunder clamoured again, and then she suddenly sat
shivering, remembering something--Clyde and old Bob and Bess, all three
of them were out in the ley field there, they weren't taken in till late
in the year. Round the ley field was barbed wire, almost new, that
father had put up in the Spring, folk said it was awful for drawing the
lightning, maybe it had drawn it already.
She was out of bed in the next flash, it was a ground
flash, it hung and it seemed to wait, sizzling, outside the window as
she pulled on stockings and vest and knickers and ran to the door and
cried upUncle Tam, Uncle
Tam, we must take in the horses!He
didn't hear, she waited, the house shook and dirled in another great
flash, then Auntie was crying something, Chris stood as if she couldn't
believe her own ears. Uncle Tam was feared at the lightning, he wouldn't
go out, she herself had best go back to her bed and wait for the
morning.
She didn't wait to hear more than that, but ran to the
kitchen and groped about for the box of matches and lighted the little
lamp, it with the glass bowl, and then found the littlest lantern and
lighted that, though her fingers shook and she almost dropped the
funnel. Then she found old shoes and a raincoat, it had been father's
and came near to her ankles, and she caught up the lamp and opened the
kitchen door and closed it quick behind her just as the sky banged again
and a flare of sheet lightning came flowing down the hill-side, frothing
like the incoming tide at Dunnottar. It dried up, leaving her blinded,
her eyes ached and she almost dropped the lantern again.
In the byre the kye were lowing fit to raise the roof,
even the stirks were up and stamping about in their stalls. But they
were safe enough unless the biggings were struck, it was the horses
she'd to think of.
Right athwart her vision the haystacks shone up like
great pointed pyramids a blinding moment, vanished, darkness complete
and heavy flowed back on her again, the lantern-light seeking to pierce
it like the bore of a drill. Still the rain held off as she stumbled and
cried down the sodden fields. Then she saw that the barbed wire was
alive, the lightning ran and glowed along it, a living thing, a
tremulous, vibrant serpent that spat and glowed and hid its head and
quivered again to sight. If the horses stood anywhere near to that they
were finished, she cried to them again and stopped and listened, it was
deathly still in the night between the bursts of the thunder, so still
that she heard the grass she had pressed underfoot crawl and quiver
erect again a step behind her. Then, as the thunder moved away--it
seemed to break and roar down the rightward hill, above the Manse and
Kinraddie Mains,--something tripped her, she fell and the lantern-flame
flared up and seemed almost to vanish; but she righted it, almost sick
though she was because of the wet, warm thing that her body and face lay
upon.
It was old Bob, he lay dead, his tongue hanging out, his
legs doubled under him queerly, poor brute, and she shook at his halter
a minute before she realized it was useless and there were still Bess
and Clyde to see to. And then she heard the thunder and clop of their
hooves coming across the grass to her, they loomed suddenly into the
light of the lamp, nearly running her down, they stood beside her and
whinnied, frightened and quivering so that her hand on Bess's neck
dirled as on the floor of a threshing-machine.
Then the lightning smote down again, quite near, though
the thunder had seemed to move off, it played a great zig-zag over the
field where she stood with the horses, and they pressed so near her she
was almost crushed between them; and the lantern was pressed from her
hand at last, it fell and went out with a crash and a crinkle of
breaking glass. She caught Bess's bridle with one hand, Clyde's with
another, and the lightning went and they began to move forward in the
darkness, she thought she was in the right direction but she couldn't be
sure. The next flash showed a field she didn't know, close at hand, with
a high staked dyke, and then she knew she had gone utterly wrong, it was
the dyke on the turnpike.
The thunder growled satisfiedly and Clyde whinnied and
whinnied, she saw then the reason for that, right ahead was the waving
of a lantern, it must be Uncle come out to look for her at last, she
criedI'm here!and
a voice criedWhere?She
cried again and the lantern came in her direction, it was two men
climbing the dyke. The horses started and whinnied and dragged her
forward and then she found herself with Chae Strachan and Ewan, they had
seen to their own horses on Upperhill and the Knapp, and had met and had
minded hers on Blawearie; and up they had come to look for them. In the
moment as they recognized one the other the lightning flared, a last
sizzling glow, and then the rain came again, they heard it coming far up
in the moors, it whistled and moaned and then was a great driving swish.
Chae thrust his lantern upon Ewan,Damn't
man, take that and the lass and run for the house! I'll see to the
horse!
Ewan caught Chris under the arm, he swung the lantern in
his other hand, they ran for a gate that led to the turnpike, the horses
galloped behind them, Chae dragging at their halters and cursing them;
and the rain overtook them as they gained the road, it was a battering
wet hand that beat at them, Chris was soaked to the skin in a moment.
But in another they'd gained the new biggings of Peesie's
Knapp, there shone a light in the kitchen, Ewan opened the door and
pushed Chris in,Bide here
and I'll off and help Chae!He
disappeared into the blackness, the door closed behind him, Chris went
forward into the kitchen and the glow of the fire. She felt daft and
deaf in the sudden silence and out of the rain, in the stillness of the
new kitchen with its meikle clock wagging against the wall, and its
calendars and pictures all spaced about, it looked calm and fine. Then
she realised how wetted she was and took off the raincoat, it rained a
puddle on the kitchen floor, she was dressed below only in knickers and
vest, she'd not remembered that!
There came a rattle and clatter outside in the close as
the men ran to the house, Chris slipped on the coat again and was
tugging at the buttons as the two came stamping in. Chae cried,Damn't,
Chris, get out of that coat, you must fair be soaked. Here, I'll stir up
the fire, the old wife's in bed, she'd sleep through a hundred storms.
He bent over the fire then, poking it up, Chris found
Ewan beside her, his hair black with the rain, the great cat, to help
her off with her coat. She whispered,I
can't, Ewan, I've nothing on below!and
he blushed as red as a girl himself, and dropped his hands, and looked
like a foolish boy so that she lost her own shyness at once, and told
the same thing to Chae when he turned him round. He laughed at her with
his twinkling eyes,What,
nothing at all?--Well, not very much, Chae--Them come ben and I'll get
you a coat of the wife's, you can slip into that.
The rain was pelting on the roof as she followed him
through to Mistress Strachan's new parlour, it sounded loud enough to
wake the dead let alone her that had been Kirsty Sinclair. Chae opened
the wardrobe and brought out a fine coat, Mistress Strachan's best for
the Sunday, lined and fine and smelling of moth-balls; and then a pair
of her slippers.Get
out of your things, Chris lass, and bring them to dry. I'll have
something warm for you and Ewan to drink.
Left alone with the candle she wished she'd asked for a
towel; Chae was kind but a man had no sense. But she managed without,
though stripping from vest and knickers and stockings felt like parting
wetly from her own skin, almost, so soaked she had been. Then she put on
the coat and slippers and gathered up the wet under-things and went
through with them to the kitchen; and there was Chae one side of the
fire with a bottle of whisky at his elbow, making toddy, and Ewan at the
other, with his coat off, warming his hands and looking at the door for
her to come ben. They didn't look at her over-close, either of them,
Chae pulled in one chair for her to sit on and another for her things to
dry on, and when she'd spread them out he stopped in his toddy-making
and saidDamn't, Chris,
was that ALL you'd on?And
she nodded and he saidYou'll
have your death of cold, sit closer--
And that was fine, sitting next to Ewan, close to the
blaze of the meikle larch logs that Chae had put on, they were swack
with resin. Syne Chae had the toddy made and he handed a glass to Ewan
first, as was right with a man, and another to Chris, with three
spoonfuls of sugar in it, Mistress Strachan might have had something to
say about that if she'd seen such wastry. But she was fast asleep up in
Chae's bed, and knew nothing of it all till the morning, she made up for
it then, folk said she accused both Chae and Ewan of cuddling and
sossing with the Guthrie quean all the hours of the night.
So that was the ongoing there was that night of
lightning, nor was it the only one in Kinraddie, for the lightning, and
maybe it was the big flash Chris had seen as she gained the brae leading
down to the horses, drove a great hole through the Manse spare bedroom,
and let in the rain and fair ruined the place. Folk said that when the
Reverend Gibbon heard the bolt strike the house, he'd been awake and
listening, he dived like a rabbit below the blankets and criedOh,
God, keep it away from me!Which
wasn't the kind of conduct you'd have expected from a minister, but
there was a fair flock of folk the lightning scared that night in one
place or another, Jock Gordon at Upperhill ran to his mother's bedroom
and wept all over the counterpane there like a bairn.
And Alec Mutch of Bridge End went out about midnight to
look for his sheep, but he was half-drunk when he went and got drunker
every minute as he chaved about, not seeing a thing. And at last he came
to a big stook out in the corn-parks and crawled into that, it was a
stook that stood near the turnpike, and feint the thing else was seen of
him till late the next morning when the postman was going by and the sun
was shining fine, and out Alec's face and meikle lugs were stuck from
the stook and gave the postman such a turn in the wame he was nearly
sick on the spot.
But of all that Chris knew nothing, she'd plenty to think
of with her own bit ploys. For after the rain cleared and her
under-things dried she went through to the parlour and got in them
again, and into the raincoat of father's, and Chae lighted a lantern,
fair yawning with sleep was Chae, and Ewan was to guide home to
Blawearie both Chris and the horses. So out to the night again, the rain
had cleared and freshened it, there was a wind from off the sea blowing
in the stars, and clouds like the drifting of great women's veils,
fisher-wives' veils, across the sad faces of the coarse high hills.
Then the horses champed in the courtyard, Ewan had their
halter-ropes in his hand, Chris was beside him swinging the lantern,
they criedTa-ta!to
Chae and Chae nearly uncovered the back of his gums, so sleepy he was,
poor stock; and he started to cry something to Chris about coming up the
morn and seeing to old Bob whom the lightning had killed, they'd be able
to sell him to the knacker in Brechin. But a yawn put an end to whatever
he'd to say, it hardly mattered, it was morn already, you could see far
down by Bervie a band of greyness stroke the horizon, as though an idle
finger stroked it there on a window-pane.
Tramp, tramp, with a nicker now and then and long
snortings through their nostrils, the horses, glad to be roaded up to
Blawearie, Ewan big by the side of Chris, she hadn't realised before how
big he was. He said nothing at all, except shy-like, onceAre
you warm enough?and she laughed and saidFine,she'd
never again be shy with Ewan Tavendale. And it seemed to her even then
it would be long before she forgot this walk through the night that was
hardly night at all, an hour poised on the edge of the morning like a
penny on its rim, the flutter of the wind in their faces and the wet
country sleeping about them, it smelt like Spring, not a morning in
fore-winter.
Then she was yawning, stopping from that, it was still a
bit way to the house, she wondered if Uncle or Auntie had known she went
out to the horses in the lightning. But she needn't have worried, not a
thing they'd guessed and didn't till the morning came. Blawearie was
black as the inside of a lum-hat when they climbed to it, the kye
quietened down, it hardly seemed home at all she had come to, a strange
place this, with Ewan beside her. She opened the stable door for him, he
led in the horses and made a shake-down, and came out and closed and
barred up the door, she held him the lantern to see to that. And then he
turned round, they were standing there in the close, his arms went round
her, below her arms, and she saidOh,
don't!and turned away
her face; and he did nothing and she turned up her face to him again,
peeping to see what he did.
Dark still it was but she saw his teeth, laughing at her,
and then she put down the lantern and somehow resistance went from her,
she hadn't wanted to resist, he was holding her close to him, kissing
her, her cheeks and the tip of her nose because he couldn't see well in
the darkness. And then he waited a moment and his lips came to hers and
they were trembling as her own were, she wanted to cry and she wanted to
laugh in a breath, and have him hold her for ever, so, in the close, and
his trembling lips that came into hers, sweet and terrible those lips in
hers.
There was a great power of honeysuckle that year, the
smell of it drenched all the close in wet, still weather, it perfumed
the night and that kiss, she wouldn't ever forget them both though she
lived unkissed again till she died. And then she knew they were near to
other things, both of them, Ewan's breath was quicker than it should,
he'd stopped from kissing her that kiss in the lips, his lips were
urgent on her neck; and she let him, standing so still, it was warm and
sweet, she was his, he hers, for all things and everything, she never
wanted better than that.
And then, in that ultimate moment, close at hand Chris
heard the Blue Wyandotte, already so cocky that he was, stir on his ree,
he gave a bit squawk before he stirred and peeked for the day he would
crow so lustily. Somehow that stirring brought Chris to her senses, she
wasn't afraid, only this could wait for another night's coming, it was
sweet and she wanted it to live and last, not snatch it and fumble it
blindly and stupidly. And she caught Ewan's hand and kissed him, he
stopped with that kiss of hers on his cheek, his cheek with the soft
brown skin; and she whisperedWait,
Ewan!
He let her go at once, shamed of himself, he had little
need to be that, she saw him troubled and uncertain in the dim light and
put her arms about him and kissed him again and whisperedCome
down and see me to-morrow evening,and
he saidChris, when'll you
marry me?and she quivered strangely and sweetly as he said that, his
hands holding her again, but gently. And then something happened, and
the happening was a yawn, she yawned as though her head would fall off,
she couldn't stop yawning; and a laugh came in the middle of it and that
only made it worse. And Ewan let go of her again, maybe he was nearly in
a rage at first, and then he yawned himself, they stood like two daft
geese, yawning, and then they were laughing together, holding hands, not
laughing too loud in case they'd be heard. And five minutes after that
Ewan was far on his way to the steading of Upperhill and Chris lying in
her bed, she'd hardly touched it when she thought of Ewan, she wanted to
think of him long and long, only next minute she was fast asleep.
It didn't seem that minute had passed when she heard
Uncle Tam come chapping at her door, fair testy,Come
away, come away, now; there's a fire to light and your Auntie wants her
tea.She sat up in bed,
still sleepy and dazed,All
right, Uncle Tam,and
yawned and didn't move for a minute, remembering the things of the night
and day she'd forgotten in sleep. And then she threw off the blankets
and got out from the bed, and stretched till each muscle was taut and
quivering, she felt light and free and fine, not at all Chris Guthrie
with the grave brown face and heavy hair, light and free as a feather;
and without a stitch on she did a little dance at her window in the
splash of early sun that came there--what a speak for Kinraddie were she
seen! And she was singing to herself as she dressed and went slipping
downstairs, Uncle was kneeling at the kitchen fire, like a cow with
colic, and fair sour in the face.You're
in fine tune this morning,he
glowered and she saidAy,
Uncle, I'm that, give the sticks to me,and
had them out of his hand and the fire snapping into them all in a
minute.
Uncle went out to the close then, to look over the fields
for the horses, and came back at a run, his little quoit medals swinging
and clashing from his meikle belly,Mighty,
Chris, there's no sign of a horse!She
didn't turn round, just saidYou
could hardly have looked in the stable,and
heard him stop and breathe a great breath, and then go out again. And
not a word more he said at the breakfast, he went up to their room to
pack; but Auntie asked how the horses came to be in and was told Chris
had done it herself, with Chae Strachan and Ewan to help. She seemed
fair shamed to hear that, Auntie Janet, but angry as well, she whisked
round the house like a wasp,Ah
well, it's plain you've no use for your relatives here, I only pray you
don't come to disaster.And
Chris saidThat's awfully
fine of you, Auntie,and
that made her madder than ever, but Chris didn't care, she didn't care
though all the world, all Kinraddie and the Howe, went mad and choked
itself with its bootlaces over the things that had been between her and
Ewan.
If it wasn't in a rage it was fair in a stir of scandal
by postman time, Kinraddie. Not a thing but it knew of her day in
Stonehaven with that coarse tink brute, Ewan Tavendale, they'd been seen
to go wandering out to Dunnottar together, they'd hidden away down in a
hole by the sea--what did they that for if they'd nothing to hide?
The postie told this to Auntie while Chris meated the
chickens, Auntie fair grew worked up and forgot to rage, near crying she
was as she told the story to Chris. How funny were folk! Chris thought,
standing and fronting that trembling face. You knew them, saw through
them, tied them up in little packets stowed away in your mind, labelled
COARSE or TINKS or FINE; and they came tumbling from the packets at the
very first shake, mixed and up-jumbled, she'd never known a soul bide
neat and sure in his packet yet. For here was Auntie near crying because
she thought her niece had been raped by Ewan Tavendale overnight,
ashamed for her, sorry for her, fair set to carry her off to Aberdeen
and cover her shame. But Chris saidThere's
nothing to cry about yet, Auntie Janet, Ewan and I haven't lain
together. We'll wait till we're married,and
laughed at her Auntie's face, it was funny and pitiful both at once. And
Auntie saidHe's to marry
you then?and Chris said
she hoped so, but you never knew, and Auntie fell in a fearsome stew
again, it wasn't fair to torment her like that, but that was the mood of
Chris that morning.
Then Chae Strachan came up from the Knapp and looked at
old Bob lying dead in his park. He shook his head over him, he doubted
if the knacker would pay more than a pound--the closest muckers in
Scotland, knackers, andthatwas
fair saying a lot. Syne he promised to drive Auntie and her man to the
station, and went back to the Knapp for his gig and was up and waiting
before you could blink. And Chris helped her relatives up in the gig,
and sent them her love to her brothers, and off the gig spanked, they
looked over their shoulders and saw her stand laughing, she didn't care
a button, coarse quean that she was.
And fair a relief was the riddance, the place to herself
again; and then as she watched the gig whip round the corner into the
turnpike it came on her that it wasn'tagain,it
was just the first time! Blawearie was hers, there wasn't a soul in the
place but herself, nobody had a right to come near it but if she
allowed. The honeysuckle was blinding sweet in the sun, wet still and as
she stood beside it and buried her face in it, laughed into it, blushed
in it, remembering herself of the night before. And Ewan would be up to
see her soon, to see her . . . and she wouldn't think of more! she had
hundreds of things to do.
By noon she had dinner set for the old wife sent from
Stonehaven. And then she heard Chae's gig come driving up to Blawearie
and there was Chae and an old bit body, fair tottery she seemed as she
got from the gig, with a black mutch on and a string bag gripped in her
hand. But when she reached the ground she was none so tottery, she said
that the heights aye feared her legs; and she looked Chris all over as
though to make sure of her, living or dead, and askedWhere'll
I put my box, Mem?And
Chris blushed for shame that any old soul shouldMemat
her,Maybe Chae will carry
it up for us?And Chae
saidOch, fine that,and
hoisted the old tin thing on his shoulder, and went swaggering into the
house, and Mrs. Melon followed after and Chris turned to Chae's gig.
By the time Chae came down she had nearly unyoked it,
Chae criedDamn't Chris,
what's on?and she told
himDinner, you're to stay
for that.So he was fell
pleased, though he hummed and hawed a minute about rousting back to the
Knapp. But she smiled at him, that way she had done to the boy in
Semple's office, and Chae stared at her and wound up his waxed mouser
and twinkled his eyes and gave her shoulder a slap,Lord,
Chris, they'll right soon be after you, the lads, with your eyeslike
that!And he gave a bit
sigh as though, other times, other ways, he'd have headed the band
himself.
So into the kitchen he came and sat himself down with old
Mistress Melon, and Chris dished up the rabbit stew and they had a great
dinner, Mistress Melon was a funny old wife as soon as she saw you put
on no airs. She'd a great red face as though she'd just unbended from a
day's hard baking, and pale blue eyes like a summer sky, and faded hair
that had once been brown, and Chris soon saw she was maybe the biggest
gossip that had ever come into Kinraddie, and faith! that meant the
challenging of many a champion.
But her stories of Stonehaven had a lilt and a laugh, and
the best was the one of the Provost that had lost his stud in his
tumbler when speaking to a teetotal gathering. And Chae said that was a
fine one,Damn't,
mistress, when I was in Africa.
. . and he told them a story of a man he knew, a black he'd been, real
brave, and he found a diamond, on his own ground too, but as soon as the
British heard of it they sent to arrest him for't. And what had that
black childe done? Swallowed the damned thing and nothing of him could
the British make, and they couldn't arrest him, and the black got his
diamond back in a day or so in the course of nature, they were awful
constipated folk, the blacks.
All the time he was telling the story Chae had been
tearing into his rabbit and oat-cake; and soon's he'd finished one plate
he took a look over the pot and criedGod,
that was right fine, Chris quean. Is there more on the go?Chris
liked that, it was fine to have somebody that was hungry and liked his
meat and didn't make out he was gentry or polite, there was less
politeness about Chae than about a potato fork.
Mistress Melon was eating right heartily too, and syne
Chae told them another story, about a lion that he and the black head
childe had hunted, they'd been awful chief together. . . . And Mistress
Melon askedWhat, you and
the lions?and winked at
Chris, but Chae wasn't a bit put out, he just saidDamn't
it no, mistress, me and the head man,and
went on with the story again, it was plain Mistress Melon thought he was
a bit of a liar till suddenly, casual-like, Chae opened the front of his
sark and finished up,And
that was the bit momento the damned beast left on me.Syne
they saw the marks on his chest, the marks of great raking claws they
were they had torn fair deep and sure, and Chae's dark body-hair didn't
grow in them. So Mistress Melon was fair stammy-gastered at that; and
said so to Chris when Chae was gone.
Soon as that was Chris set to arranging with the Melon
wife how the two of them would partition the work, Mistress Melon could
do the cooking and cleaning, Chris preferred the outside, she'd milk and
see to the kine; and they'd get on bravely, no doubt. Mistress Melon was
a fell good worker in spite of her awful tongue, she'd cleared up the
dinner things and washed them and put them away ere Chris was well out
of the house. Then down on her knees she went and was scrubbing the
kitchen floor, Chris was glad enough to see her at that, she hated
scrubbing herself. If only she'd been born a boy she'd never had such
hatings vexing her, she'd have ploughed up parks and seen to their
draining, lived and lived, gone up to the hills a shepherd and never had
to scunner herself with the making of beds or the scouring of pots. But
neither would she ever have had Ewan hold her as last night he had.
And then she blushed and went on in silence with the
cleaning of the byre, thinking of his coming and what she would say to
him and the thing it was they'd arrange. Before she knew it the new plan
came shaping up bravely in her mind, neat and trim and trig, and when
she looked out and saw the gloaming near and went over the close and
down through the parks for the kye, she had everything fixed, it didn't
matter a fig what folk might say.
So when Ewan came in by at last she waited him ben in the
parlour, with a great fire kindled there and the two big leather chairs
drawn close. It was Mistress Melon that brought him through, her meikle
red face fair shaking with ill-fashionce, agog to know what was toward.
But Chris just saidThank
you, Mistress Melon,and
ticed Ewan over to his chair, and took his cap from him and made him sit
down and fair closed the door in the old wife's face.
It was bright and warm in the room, she turned round and
saw her lad sit so; and then she raised her head and saw herself in the
long, old mirror of the parlour wall, and thought how she'd changed, it
crept on you and you hardly noticed, in ways you were still as young as
the quean with the plaits that had run by Marget to catch the scholar's
train. But she saw herself then in her long green skirt, long under the
knee, and her hair wound in its great fair plaits about her head, and
her high cheek-bones that caught the light and her mouth that was well
enough, her figure was better still; and she knew for one wild passing
moment herself both frightened and sorry she should be a woman, she'd
never dream things again, she'd live them, the days of dreaming were by;
and maybe they had been the best; and there was Ewan waiting for her,
the great quiet cat, reddening and turning his head up with its
smouldering eyes.
She went to him then and put her hand on his shoulder and
before she knew it they were close together and so stayed long after
they had finished with kissing, just quiet, in the firelight, his arms
about her, her head on his shoulder, watching the fire. And when at last
they began to speak she put her hands over his lips, whispering to him
to whisper in case Mistress Melon should be listening out by. Maybe she
wasn't but in the shortest while they heard her go stamping about in the
kitchen, singing a hymn fell loud, and that was a bit suspicious.
But they ceased from heeding her soon enough, they'd a
hundred things to plan and discuss, there in the fire-glow, they lit no
lamp, Chris listened with her head down-bent as he told her he couldn't
marry he'd no more than a hundred pounds saved up, they'd have to wait.
And she told himshehad
three hundred pounds, no credit to her, it was her father's saving, but
if she and Ewan married fair soon he could take over Blawearie's lease,
they could stay where they were,and
that would be fine, no need for you any day then to go back through the
parks to Upperhill.He
kissed her again at that, hurting her lips, but she didn't heed, it was
fine to be hurt like that; but she wouldn't kiss back till he'd put him
his Highland pride in his pouch and mutteredAll
right.
They'd planned to be married in December and as they'd
planned so the thing worked out without any hitch at all. In November
Ewan found and fee'd a substitute foreman for Upperhill, a quite-like
childe James Leslie; and though old Gordon was none so pleased he
couldn't well afford to fall out with so near a neighbour as the new
Blawearie. Chris went into Stonehaven again with Ewan and saw the man
Semple, he was fair suspicious, at first, but she argued him soon from
that, and he got the lease changed to Ewan's name, and well-feathered
his own nest in the changing, no doubt.
By then the news was no news, Kinraddie knew all, and
when they came from the station that night they met in with Ellison down
from the Mains, he'd been waiting them there to go by and he wouldn't
have it but that they go up to the house and drink their own healths in
a dram. Mistress Ellison was gentry and nice, more gentry than nice,
poor thing, she was still no more than a servant quean and fleered and
arched to make Chris and Ewan blush, she managed with Ewan. But Chris
kept cool as ice, and nearly as friendly, she didn't see that a joke was
less dirty if a neighbour spoke it. She and Ewan fair quarrelled over
that when they left the Mains, it was their first quarrel and she
wouldn't let him touch her, she saidIf
you like foul stories, I don't,and
he said, prigging at her,Oh,
don't be a fool, Chris quean,and
she saidThere's no need
for you marry a fool, then,and
the Highland temper quite went with him then, he flared up like a whin
with a match at it,Don't
be feared, I've no such intention!and
off he went, up over the hill through the evening parks.
Chris walked on prim and cold and quick, it was near to
sunset, she turned her head, she couldn't but help it, to see if he
wasn't looking back, he wasn't; and that was too much, she stopped and
criedEwan!and
he wheeled like a shot and came running to her, she was crying in
earnest by then, she cried up against his coat while he held her and
panted and swore at himself,Oh,
Chris, I didn't mean to hurt you!And she sniffedYou
didn't, it was myself;and
they made it all up again. She walked home subdued-like that night, it
wouldn't be always plain sailing, they'd awful tempers, both of them.
Then she saw the light of Blawearie shine steadfast across the parks and
her heart kindled to a queer, quiet warmth at that.
They'd arranged to be married on New Year's Eve, most
folk would be free to come that day. For three evenings they sat in
Blawearie parlour and wrote their invitations to folk they knew and some
they didn't, nearly every soul in Kinraddie was asked, they couldn't
well miss out one of them. And to Auntie and Uncle and Dod and Alec they
wrote, and to Ewan's friend, McIvor, a Highlandman out of Ross. He
hadn't any near relatives, Ewan, and faith! they were feint the loss.
Chris knew that some would be sore affronted she should
marry so close to her father's death, and with all the stir they
intended, too. But Ewan saidDamn
it, you're only married once as a general rule, and it won't hurt the
old man in Kinraddie kirkyard.So
when Uncle wrote down from Auchterless that he'd think black, burning
shame to attend such a marriage, Ewan said he could blacken and burn
till he was more like a cinder heap than a man, for all they need care.
Chris was sorry they wouldn't let her brothers come, but
it couldn't be helped, she wasn't to weep for that. So they planned out
a wedding they'd mind on when they grew old, ordering food enough to
feed the French, as the saying went. Mistress Melon near burst her
meikle face with amaze as the packages came pouring in; and she spread
the story of Chris's extravagance out through the Howe, she'd soon see
the end of old Guthrie's silver. Folk shook their heads when they heard
of that, it was plain that the quean wouldn't store the kiln long.
When Ewan went over to see to the banns the Reverend
Gibbon tried to read him a lecture about such a display so close to John
Guthrie's death. But he gave it up quick enough when Ewan began to spit
like a cat and say the service he wanted was a wedding, not a sermon.
Syne it grew plain they couldn't meet so often, Ewan would have to bide
at the Upperhill all the day before the marriage. Chris kissed him
good-bye that evening and told him to look after himself, and herself
looked after him, troubled, knowing the kind of coarse things they might
try him with in the bothy. And try they did, but Ewan couped one of them
into the midden and threw young Gordon into the horse-trough when that
brute was trying the same on Ewan himself; so they let him be, dour
devils to handle, those Highlandmen.
And down in Blawearie next day, what with cooking and
chaving and tending to beasts, and wrestling with the worry of the barn,
it wasn't half spruced for the dance, Chris might well have gone off her
head if Chae and Long Rob of the Mill hadn't come dandering up the road
in the afternoon, shy-like, bringing their presents. And Rob's was fine,
two great biscuit barrels in oak and silver; and Chae's was from him and
Kirsty, sheets and pillows, kind of Mistress Strachan, that, when you
minded how the two of you'd fallen out over father ill.
And when they heard of the barn they cast off their
coats,Leave it to us,
Chris lass, just tell's what you want;and
they set to with ladders and tow and fancy frills and worked till near
it was dark, redding up the place, it looked fine as a fairy-palace in a
picture-book when they finished. Chae saidAnd
who's your musician?Chris
nearly dropped through the floor with shock, she and Ewan had fair
forgot about music. But Chae said it didn't matter, he'd bring his
melodeon and Long Rob his fiddle; and faith! if that didn't content the
folk they were looking for a church parade of the Gordons, not a
wedding.
Syne they bade good night to Chris, and they laughed at
her, kind-like, and saidThis
time the morn you'll be a married woman, Chris, not a quean. Sleep sound
to-night!And she laughed
back and saidOh, fine
that;but she blushed
when Long Rob began to glint his grey eyes at her, he'd have to think of
getting married himself, he said, fine it must be to sleep with a slim
bit the like of herself those coldrife winter nights. And Chae saidAway,
Rob, feint the much sleep you'd give her!
And then they cried their good nights again and went off,
leaving Chris with such lonesome feeling as she'd seldom had, all had
been done that could be done, she wanted to sleep but couldn't sleep;
and she wandered from room to room till Mistress Melon was fair upset
and criedFor God's sake
gang to your bed, lass, I'll tend to the rest; if you don't lie down
you'll look more like a bull for the butcher's than a bride the morn.And
Chris laughed, she heard her laugh funny and faint-like, and said she
supposed so, and went off to her room, but not to bed. She sat by the
window, it was a night that was rimed with a frost of stars, rime in the
sky and rime on the earth, the Milky Way shone clear and hard and the
black trees of Blawearie waved their leafless boughs up against the
window, sparkling white with the hoar; and far across the countryside
for hours she watched the winking of the paraffin-lights in the
farmhouses, till they sank and went out, and she was left in a world
that might well have been dead but that she lived.
Strange and eerie it was, sitting there, she couldn't
move from the frozen flow of thoughts that came to her then, daft things
she'd no need to think on her marriage eve . . . that this marriage of
hers was nothing, that it would pass on and forward into days that had
long forgotten it, her life and Ewan's, and they pass also, and the face
of the land change and change again in the coming of the seasons and
centuries till the last lights sank away from it and the sea came
flooding up the Howe, all her love and tears for Ewan not even a ripple
on that flood of water far in the times to be. And then she found
herself cold as an icicle and got to her feet and at last began to get
from her clothes--strange to think that to-morrow and all the to-morrows
Ewan would share her room and her bed with her.
She thought that cool and unwarmed, still in the grip of
the strange white dreaming that had been hers, looking down at herself
naked as though she looked at some other than herself, a statue like
that of the folk of olden time that they set in the picture galleries.
And she saw the light white on the satin of her smooth skin then, and
the long, smooth lines that lay from waist to thigh, thigh to knee, and
was glad her legs were long from the knee to the ankle, that made legs
seem stumbling and stumpy, shortness there. And still impersonally she
bent to see if that dimple still hid there under her left breast, it
did, it was deep as ever. Then she straightened and took down her hair
and brushed it, standing so, silly to stand without her night-gown, but
that was the mood she was in, somehow it seemed that never again would
she be herself, have this body that was hers and her own, those fine
lines that curved from thigh to knee hers, that dimple she'd loved when
a child--oh, years before!
And then a clock began to strike, it struck two, and
suddenly she was in a panic to be bedded and snug and herself again; and
was in between the sheets in an instant, cuddling herself to some warmth
and counting how many hours it would be till morning. And oh! it was
still so long!
It came in snow that morning; she looked out from her
window and saw it sheeting across the countryside, all silent; but still
the daft peewits wheeped and wheeled against the hills, looking for the
nests they'd lost in the harvest and couldn't forget. In the race and
whip of the great broad flakes the leafless trees stood shivering; but
down below Mistress Melon was already at work, Chris heard the clatter
of the breakfast things, it was time she herself was into her clothes,
there were hundreds of things to do.
Then she took out of the chest of drawers her
underthings, there was no need to wait to change them, and looked at
them, the silken vest, awful price it had been, and knickers and
petticoat, vest, knickers and petticoat all of a shade, blue, with white
ribbon; and they looked lovely and they smelt fine, she buried her face
in them, so lovely they were and the queer feeling they brought her. And
she changed her mind, she couldn't wear anything now she'd be wearing
when she was married, she put on her old things and her old skirt and
went down the stairs; and there was Mistress Melon smiling at her,How
do you feel on your marriage-morn, Chris?
And Chris saidFine,and
Mistress Melon said that was a good job, too, she'd known creatures of
queans come down fair hysterical, others that just shook with fright,
still others that spoke so undecent you knew fine a man's bed was no
unco place forthem.She
hoped Chris would be awful happy, no fear of that, and soon have a
two-three bairns keep her out of longer. And Chris saidYou
never know,and she ate
her porridge and Mistress Melon hers, and they cleared the table and
scrubbed the kitchen and then Chris went out and tended the beasts, the
very horses seemed to guess there was unco thing on the go, Bess nozzled
up against her shoulder; and there in the barn when she peeked in it,
right in the middle of the floor, were two great rats, sitting up on
their tails, sniffing at each other's mouths, maybe kissing, and that
was so funny, she tried not to laugh, but gave a choked gurgle and
flirt! the rats were out of sight and into their holes.
In the cornyard the hens came tearing about her, mad with
hunger, she gave them meat hot from the pot and then a bushel of corn,
they liked that fine. But first the little bit Wyandotte got up on the
cartshaft and gave a great crow that might have been heard in the
Upperhill; and he cocked a bright eye on her, first one eye and then the
other, and Chris laughed again.
She didn't feel hurried after that, then the postman
came, fell dry, they gave him a dram and he licked his lips and saidHere's
to you, Chris!as blithe
to drink to her health as to blacken her character. He'd brought him two
parcels, one was a lovely bedspread from Mistress Gibbon of the Manse,
nice of the quiet-voiced English thing, and the other from the Gordons
of Upperhill, a canteen of cutlery, full enough of knives and forks and
things to keep you cleaning them a week on end and not be finished, said
Mistress Melon.
Then up the road came the wife of the grave-digger,
Garthmore, him that had buried father. Sore made as always she was, poor
thing, they'd asked her to come and lend them a hand more out of pity
than anything else; and when the three sat down to dinner she saidEh,
me! it's fine to be young and be married, and maybe he'll treat you all
right, but mine, my first man, him that's now dead, God! he was a fair
bull of a man and not only the first night, either. He was aye at it,
near deaved me to death he would if he hadn't fallen over the edge of a
quarry on the road from the feeing-market some nine-ten years come
Martinmas.But Mistress
Melon said,Havers, are
you trying to frighten the lass? She'll be fine, her lad's both blithe
and kind;and Chris loved
her for that, she'd never seemed to see and know Mistress Melon before,
thinking her just a hard-working, hard-gossiping old body, now she saw
the kindliness of her shine out, her gossiping no more than the dreams
she aye dreamt and must tell to others. And then Mistress Melon criedAway
and get into your dress now, Chris, before the folk come up.
It had left off snowing, Chris, dressing, saw from her
window, a sunless day; and a great patching of clouds was upon the sky,
the light below bright and sharp, flung by the snow itself; and the
smoke rose straight in the air. Far over the braes by Upperhill where
Ewan would be getting set in his clothes--unless he'd done that long
before in the morning--the sheep were baaing in their winter buchts.
Then Chris took off her clothes, and stood white again, and put on the
wedding things, mother'd have like to see them, mother lying dead and
forgotten in Kinraddie kirkyard with the twins beside her. She found
herself weep then, slowly, hardly, lost and desolate a moment without
mother on her marriage-day. And then she shook her head,Oh,
don't be a fool, do you want to look a fright before Ewan and the folk?
She peered at her face in the glass, then, fine! her eyes
were bright, the crying had helped them. Pretty in a way, not only
good-looking, she saw herself, dour cheek-bones softened for the hour in
their chilled bronze setting. And she combed out her hair, it came far
past her middle, thick and soft and sweet-smelling and rusty and
tarnished gold. Then last was her dress, blue also, but darker than her
underclothes because so short was the time since father had died, she
threaded the neck with a narrow black ribbon but round her own neck put
nothing, her skin was the guerdon there.
So, ready, she turned herself round a minute, and held
back the skirt from her ankles and liked them, they were neat and round,
she had comely bones, her feet looked long and lithe in the black silk
stockings and shoes. She found herself a hanky, last, and sprinkled some
scent in that, only a little; and hid it away in her breast and went
down the stairs just as she heard the first gig drive up.
That was the Strachans from Peesie's Knapp, Mistress
Strachan fell long in the face at first. But Chae soon kindled her up
with a dram, he whispered to Chris that he'd look after the drink; and
Mistress Melon said it was aye best to have a man body at that end of
the stir. And before they could say much more there come a fair stream
of traffic up from the turnpike, all Kinraddie seemed on the move to
Blawearie: except the old folk from Netherhill, and they sent their kind
wishes and two clucking hens for Chris's nests.
The hens broke the ice, you might say, for they got
themselves loose from the gig of the Netherhill folk and started a wild
flutter and chirawk everywhere, anywhere out of Blawearie. Long Rob of
the Mill was coming up the road at that minute, in his Sunday best, and
he met the first hen and heard the cry-out that followed her, and he
cried himself,Shoo, you
bitch!The hen dodged
into the ditch, but Rob was after her, grabbing her, she squawked fair
piercing as he carried her up to the house, his fine Sunday coat was
lathered with snow; and he said that such-like work would have been
nothing to Chae, who had chased the bit ostriches out in the Transvaal,
but he'd had no training himself. Syne he took up the dram that Chae had
poured him and criedHere's
to the bonniest maid Kircaddie will mind for many a year!
That was kind of him, Chris had been cool and quiet
enough until then, but she blushed at that, seeing Rob stand like a
viking out of the picture books with the iron-grey glint in his eyes.
Mistress Munro, though, was right sore jealous as usual, she poked her
nose in the air and said, and not over-low,The
great fool might wait for the tea before he starts his speechifying;she
was maybe mad that nobody had ever saidshewas
bonny; or if anybody ever had, he was an uncommon liar.
Then the Bridge End folk came up, then Ellison and his
wife and their daughter, and then the Gordons, and then the minister,
riding on his bicycle, it looked as though he'd had a fall or two and he
wasn't in the best of temper, he wouldn't have a dram,No,
thank you, Chae,he said,
real stiff-like. And when Rob gave him a sly bit look,You've
been communing with Mother Earth, I see, Mr. Gibbon,he
just turned his back and made out he didn't hear, and folk looked fair
uncomfortable, all except Long Rob himself and Chae, they winked one at
the other, and then at Chris.
She thought the Minister a fusionless fool, and went to
the door to see who else was coming; and there, would you believe it,
was poor old Pooty toiling up through the drifts with a great parcel
under his oxter, his old face was white with snow and he shivered and
hoasted as he came in, peeking out below his old, worn brows for Chris.Where's
the bit llllass!he
cried, and then saw her and put the parcel in her hands, and she opened
it then, as the custom was, and in it lay a fine pair of shoes he had
made for her, shoes of glistening leather with gay green soles, and a
pair of slippers, soft-lined with wool, there wouldn't be a grander pair
in Kinraddie. And she saidOh,
thank you,and she knew
that wasn't enough, he stood peering up at her like an old hen peers,
she didn't know why she did it but she put her arms round him and kissed
him, folk laughed at that, all but the two of them, Pooty blinked and
stuttered till Long Rob reached out a hand and pulled him into a chair
and criedWet
your whistle with this, Pooty man, you've hardly a minute ere the
wedding begins.
And he was right, for up the road came walking the last
two, Ewan and his best man, the Highlander McIvor, near six feet six,
red-headed, red-faced, a red Highlandman that bowed so low to Chris that
she felt a fool; and presented his present, and it was a ram's horn shod
with silver, real bonny and unco, like all Highland things. But Ewan
took never a look at Chris, they made out they didn't see one the other,
and Mistress Melon whispered to her to go tidy her hair, and when she
came down again all the place was quiet, there was hardly a murmur. She
stopped at the foot of the stairs with the heart beating so against her
skin it was like to burst from her breast; and there was Chae Strachan
waiting her, he held out his arm and patted her hand, when she laid it
on his arm, and he whisperedReady
then, Chris?
Then he opened the parlour door, the place was crowded,
there were all the folk sitting in chairs, solemn as a kirk
congregation, and over by the window stood the Reverend Gibbon, very
stern and more like a curly bull than ever; and in front of him waited
Ewan and his best man, McIvor. Chris had for bridesmaids the little
Ellison girl and Maggie Jean Gordon, they joined with her, she couldn't
see clear for a minute then, or maybe too clear, she didn't seem to be
seeing with her own eyes at all. And then Chae had loosed her hand from
his arm and she and Ewan stood side by side, he was wearing a new suit,
tweed it was, and smelt lovely, his dark face was solemn and frightened
and white, he stood close to her, she knew him more frightened than she
was herself. Something of her own fear went from her then, she stood
listening to the Reverend Gibbon and the words he was reading, words
that she'd never heard before, this was the first marriage she'd ever
been at.
And then she heard Chae whisper behind her and listened
more carefully still, and heard Ewan sayI
will,in a desperate kind
of voice, and then said it herself, her voice was as happy and clear as
well you'd have wished, she smiled up at Ewan, the white went from his
face and the red came in spate. The Red Highlander behind slipped
something forward, she saw it was the ring, and then Ewan fitted it over
her finger, his fingers were hot and unsteady, and Mr. Gibbon closed his
eyes and said,Let
us pray.
And Chris held on to Ewan's hand and bent her head and
listened to him, the minister; and he asked God to bless their union, to
give them courage and strength for the difficulties that the years might
bring to them, to make fruitful their marriage and their love as pure
and enduring in its fulfilment as in its conception. They were lovely
words, words like the marching of a bronze-leafed beech on the lips of a
summer sky. So Chris thought, her head down-bent and her hand in Ewan's,
then she lost the thread that the words were strung on, because of that
hand of Ewan's that still held hers; and she curbed her little finger
into his palm, it was hard and rough there and she tickled the skin
secretly, and his hand quivered and she took the littlest keep at his
face. There was that smile of his, fliting like a startled cat; and then
his hand closed firm and warm and sure on hers, and hers lay quiet in
his, and the minister had finished and was shaking their hands.
He hesitated a minute and then bent to kiss Chris; close
to hers she saw his face older far than when he came to Kinraddie, there
were pouches under his eyes, and a weary look in his eyes, and his kiss
she didn't like. Ewan's was a peck, but Chae's was fine, it was hearty
and kind though he reeked of the awful tobacco he smoked, and then Long
Rob's, it was clean and sweet and dry, like a whiff from the Mill
itself; and then it seemed every soul in Kinraddie was kissing her,
except only Tony, the daftie, he'd been left at home. Everybody was
speaking and laughing and slapping Ewan on the back and coming to kiss
her, those that knew her well and some that didn't. And last it was
Mistress Melon, her eyes were over bright but careful still, she nearly
smothered Chris and then whisperedUp
to your room and tidy yourself, they've messed your hair.
She escaped them then, the folk trooped out to the
kitchen where the fire was roaring, Chae passed round the drams again,
there was port for the women if they wanted it and raspberry drinks for
the children. Soon's the parlour was clear Mistress Melon and Mistress
Garthmore had the chairs whisked aside, the tables put forward and the
cloths spread; and there came a loud tinkling as they spread the supper,
barely past three though it was. But Chris knew it fell likely that few
had eaten much at their dinners in Kinraddie that day, there wouldn't
have been much sense with a marriage in prospect: and as soon as they'd
something solid in their bellies to foundation the drink, as a man might
say, the better it would be.
In her room that wouldn't be her room for long Chris
brushed her hair and settled her dress and looked at her flushed, fair
face, it was nearly the same, hard to believe though you thought it. And
then something felt queer about her, the ring on her hand it was, she
stood and stared at the thing till a soft whispering drew her eyes to
the window, the snow had come on again, a scurry and a blinding drive
from down the hills; and below in the house they were cryingThe
bride, where is she?
So down she went, folk had trooped back in the parlour by
then and were sitting them round the tables, the minister at the head of
one, Long Rob at the head of another, in the centre one the wedding cake
stood tall on its stand with the Highland dirk beside it that Ewan had
gotten from McIvor to do the cutting. The wind had risen storming
without as Chris stood to cut, there in her blue frock with the long,
loose sleeves, there came a great whoom in the chimney and some looked
out at the window and said that the drifts would be a fell feet deep by
the morn. And then the cake was cut and Chris sat down, Ewan beside her,
and found she wasn't hungry at all, about the only soul in the place
that wasn't, everybody else was taking a fair hearty meal.
The minister had thawed away by then, he was laughing
real friendly-like in his bull-like boom of a voice, telling of other
weddings he'd made in his time, they'd all been gey funny and queer-like
weddings, things that you laughed at, not fine like this. And Chris
listened and glowed with pride that everything at hers was just and
right; and then again as so often that qualm of doubt came down on her,
separating her away from these kindly folk of the farms--kind, and aye
ready to believe the worst of others they heard, unbelieving that others
could think the same of themselves. So maybe the minister no more than
buttered her, she looked at him with the dark, cool doubt in her face,
next instant forgot him in a glow of remembrance that blinded all else:
she was married to Ewan.
Beside her: he whisperedOh,
eat something, Chris, you'll fair go famished,and
she tried some ham and a bit of the dumpling, sugared and fine, that
Mistress Melon had made. And everybody praised it, as well they might,
and cried for more helpings, and more cups of tea, and there were scones
and pancakes and soda-cakes and cakes made with honey that everybody
ate; and little Wat Strachan stopped eating of a sudden and criedMother,
I'm not right in the belly!everybody
laughed at that but Kirsty, she jumped to her feet and hurried him out,
and came back with him with his face real frightened. But faith! It
didn't put a stop to the bairn, he started in again as hungry as ever,
and Chae cried outWell,
well, let him be, maybe it tasted as fine coming up as it did going
down!
Some laughed at that, others reddened and looked real
affronted, Chris herself didn't care. Cuddiestoun and his wife sat
opposite her, it was like watching a meikle collie and a futret at meat,
him gulping down everything that came his way and a lot that didn't, he
would rax for that; and his ugly face, poor stock, fair shone and
glimmered with the exercise. But Mistress Munro snapped down at her
plate with sharp, quick teeth, her head never still a minute, just like
a futret with a dog nearby. They were saying hardly anything, so busied
they were, but Ellison next to them had plenty to say, he'd taken a dram
over much already and was crying things across the table to Chris,
Mistress Tavendale he called her at every turn; and he said that she and
Mistress Ellison must get better acquaint. Maybe he'd regret that the
morn, if he minded his promise: and that wasn't likely.
Next to him was Kirsty and the boys and next to that the
minister's table with Alec Mutch and his folk and young Gordon; a real
minister's man was Alec, awful chief-like the two of them were, but
Mistress Mutch sat lazy as ever, now and then she cast a bit look at
Chris out of the lazy, gley eyes of her, maybe there was a funniness in
the look that hadn't to do with the squint.
Up at Rob's table an argument rose, Chris hoped that it
wasn't religion, she saw Mr. Gordon's wee face pecked up to counter Rob.
But Rob was just saying what a shame it was that folk should be shamed
nowadays to speak Scotch--or they called it Scots if they did, the
split-tongued sourocks! Every damned little narrow dowped rat that you
met put on the English if he thought he'd impress you--as though Scotch
wasn't good enough now, it had words in it that the thin bit scrachs of
the English could never come at. And Rob saidYou
can tell me, man, what's the English for sotter, or greip, or smore, or
pleiter, gloaming or glanching or well-henspeckled? And if you said
gloaming was sunset you'd fair be a liar; and you're hardly that, Mr.
Gordon.
But Gordon was real decent and reasonable,You
can't help it, Rob. If folk are to get on in the world nowadays, away
from the ploughshafts and out of the pleiter, they must use the English,
orra though it be.And
Chae cried out that was right enough, and God! who could you blame? And
a fair bit breeze got up about it all, every soul in the parlour seemed
speaking at once; and as aye when they spoke of the thing they agreed
that the land was a coarse, coarse life, you'd do better at almost
anything else, folks that could send their lads to learn a trade were
right wise, no doubt of that, there was nothing on the land but work,
work, work, and chave, chave, chave, from the blink of day till the fall
of night, no thanks from the soss and sotter, and hardly a living to be
made.
Syne Cuddiestoun said that he'd heard of a childe up
Laurencekirk way, a banker's son from the town he was, and he'd come to
do farming in a scientific way. So he'd said at first, had the childe,
but God! by now you could hardly get into the place for the clutter of
machines that lay in the yard; andhewouldn't
store the kiln long. But Chae wouldn't have that, he sworeDamn't,
no, the machine's the best friend of man, or it would be so in a
socialist state. It's coming and the chaving'll end, you'll see, the
machine'll do all the dirty work.And Long Rob called out that he'd
like right well to see the damned machine that would muck you a pigsty
even though they all turned socialist to-morrow. And they all took a bit
laugh at that, Chris and Ewan were fair forgotten for a while, they
looked at each other and smiled, Ewan reached down and squeezed her hand
and Chris wished every soul but themselves a hundred miles from
Blawearie.
But then Chae criedFill
up your glasses, folk, the best man has a toast.And
the red Highlander, McIvor, got up to his feet and bowed his red head to
Chris, and began to speak; he spoke fine, though funny with that
Highland twist, he said he'd never seen a sweeter quean than the bride
or known a better friend than the groom; and he wished them long and
lovely days, a marriage in the winter had the best of it. For was not
the Spring to come and the seed-time springing of their love, and the
bonny days of the summer, flowering it, and autumn with the harvest of
their days? And when they passed to that other winter together they
would know that was not the end of it, it was but a sleep that in
another life would burgeon fresh from another earth. He could never
believe but that two so young and fair as his friend and his friend's
wife, once made one flesh would be one in the spirit as well; and have
their days built of happiness and their nights of the music of the
stars.
And he lifted his glass and criedThe
bride!looking at Chris
with his queer bright eyes, the daft Highland poet, they were all like
that, the red Highlanders. And everybody criedGood
luck to her!and they all
drank up and Chris felt herself blush from head to foot under all the
blue things she wore.
And then Long Rob of the Mill was making a speech,
different from McIvor's as well it might be. He said he'd never married
himself because he'd over-much respect for those kittle folk, women; but
if he'd been ten years younger he was damned if his respect would have
kept him from having a try for Chris Guthrie, and beating that Highland
childe, Ewan, at his own fell game. That was just Ewan's luck, he
thought, not his judgment, and Chris was clean thrown away on her
husband, as she'd have been on any husband at all: but himself. Ah well,
no doubt she'd train him up well, and he advised Ewan now, from the
little that he knew of marriage, never to counter his wife; not that he
thought she wasn't well able to look after herself, but just that Ewan
mightn't find himself worsted though he thought himself winner.
Marriage, he took it, was like yoking together two
two-year-olds, they were kittle and brisk on the first bit rig--unless
they'd fallen out as soon as they were yoked and near kicked themselves
and their harness to bits--but the second rig was the testing time, it
was then you knew when one was pulling and one held back, the one that
hard sheer sweirty--and that was a word for Mr. Gordon to put into
English--in its bones, and the one with a stout bit heart and a good
guts. Well, he wouldn't say more about horses, though faith! it was a
fascinating topic, he'd just come back to marriage and say they all
wished the best to Chris, so sweet and trig, and to Ewan, the Highland
cateran, and long might they live and grow healthy, wealthy, and well
content.
Then they all drank up again, and God knows who mightn't
have made the next speech if Chae then hadn't stood up and criedThe
night's near on us. Who's game for a daylight dance at Chris's wedding?
So out they all went to the kitchen, it was cold enough
there from the heat of the room, but nothing to the cold rife air of the
barn when the first of them had crossed the close and stood in the door.
But Mistress Melon had kindled a brazier with coal, it crackled fine,
well away from the straw, Rob tuned up his fiddle, Chae squeaked on his
melodeon, it began to feel brisk and warm even while you stood and near
shivered your sark off. Chris was there with the men, of course, and the
children and Mistress Gordon and Mistress Mutch and Mistress Strachan
were there, Mistress Munro had stayed behind to help clear the tables,
she said, and some whispered it was more than likely she'd clear most of
the clearings down her own throat, by God she couldn't have eaten a
mouthful since Candlemas.
But then Chae criedStrip
the Willow,and they all
lined up, and the melodeon played bonnily in Chae's hands, and Long
Rob's fiddle-bow was darting and glimmering, and in two minutes in the
whirl and go ofStrip the
Willow,there wasn't a
cold soul in Blawearie barn, or a cold sole either. Then here, soon's
they'd finished, was Mistress Melon with a great jar of hot toddy to
drink, she set it on a bench between Chae and Long Rob. And whoever
wanted to drink had just to go there, few were bashful in the going,
too; and another dance started, it was a schottische, and Chris found
herself in the arms of the minister, he could dance like a daft young
lad. And as he swung her round and around he opened his mouth and criedHooch!and
so did the red Highlander, McIvor,Hooch!careering
by with fat Kirsty Strachan, real scared-like she looked, clipped round
the waist.
Then Chae and Long Rob hardly gave them a breather, they
were at it dance on dance; and every time they stopped for a panting
second Chae would dip in the jar and give Rob a wink and cryHere's
to you, man!and Rob
would dip, solemn-like as well, and saySame
to you!and off the fiddle and melodeon would go again, faster than
ever. Ewan danced the schottische with prim Mistress Gordon, but for
waltzing he found a quean from the Mains, a red-faced, daft-like limmer,
she screamed with excitement and everybody laughed, Chris laughed as
well. Some were watching to see if she did, she knew, and she heard a
whisper she'd have all her work cut out looking after him, coarse among
the queans he was, Ewan Tavendale. But she didn't care, she knew it a
lie, Ewan was hers and hers only; but she wished he would dance with her
for a change.
And here at thePetronellahe
was, he anyway hadn't been drinking, in the noise of the dance as they
swayed up and down the barn he whisperedWell,
Chris?and she whispered
backFine,and
he saidYou're the
bonniest thing ever seen in Kinraddie, Long Rob was right.And she
said she liked him to think so, and he called her back in the darkness
away from the dancers, and kissed her quickly and slowly, she didn't
hurry either, it was blithe and glad to stand there kissing, each
strained to hear when they'd be discovered.
And then they were, Chae cryingWhere's
the bride and the groom? Damn't it, they're lost!and
out they'd to come. Chae cried was there anyone else could play the
melodeon? and young Jock Gordon cried back to himAy,
fine that,and came
stitering across the floor and sat himself down by the toddy jar, and
played loud and clear and fine.
Then Chae caught Chris, he said to EwanAway,
you greedy brute, wait a while till she's yours forever and aye,and
he danced right neatly, you didn't expect it from Chae, with his grey
eyes laughing down at you. And as he danced he said suddenly, grave
like,Never doubt your
Ewan, Chris, or never let him know that you do. That's the hell of a
married life. Praise him up and tell him he's fine, that there's not a
soul in the Howe can stand beside him, and he'll want to cuddle you till
the day he dies; and he'll blush at the sight of you fifty years on as
much as he does the day.She
saidI'll try,andThank
you, Chae,and he saidOch,
it must be the whisky speaking,and
surrendered her up to Ellison, and took the melodeon from Gordon again,
but staggered and leant back against the sack that hung as a
draught-shield behind the musician's place. Down came the sack and there
among the hay was the minister and the maid from the Mains that had
scraiched so loud, she'd her arms round him and the big curly bull was
kissing the quean like a dog lapping up its porridge.
Chris's heart near stopped, but Chae snatched up the
sack, hooked it back on its hook again, nobody saw the sight except
himself and Chris and maybe Long Rob. But you couldn't be sure about
Rob, he looked as solemn as five owls all in one, and was playing as
though, said Chae, he was paid by piece-work and not by time.
Between eight and nine Mistress Melon came out to the
barn and cried them to supper, the storm had left off, all but a flake
that sailed down now and then like a sailing gull in the beam from the
barn door. On the ground the snow crinkled under their feet, frost had
set in, the folk stood and breathed in the open air, and laughed, and
cried one to the other,Man,
I'll have aching joints the morn!The
women ran first to the house, to tidy their hair, Ewan saw everybody in,
except Munro of the Cuddiestoun, he was nowhere to be seen.
And then Ewan heard a funny bit breathing as he passed by
the stable; and he stopped and opened the door and struck a match, and
there was Munro, all in his Sunday-best, lying in the stall beside Clyde
the horse, and his arms were round the beast's neck, and faith! the
beast looked real disgusted. Ewan shook him and criedMunro,
you can't sleep here,but
Munro just blinked the eyes in his face, daft-like, and grumbledWhy
not?Syne Alec Mutch
turned back from the house to see what all the stir was about, and both
he and Ewan had another go at the prostrate Munro, but damn the move
would he make, Alec criedTo
hell with him, leave him there with the mare, she's maybe a damned sight
kinder a bed-mate then ever was that futret of a wife of his.
So they closed the door of the stable and went into their
supper, everybody ate near as well as at tea-time, fair starved they
were with the dancing and drink. Chris had thought she herself was tired
till she ate some supper, and then she felt as fresh ever, and backed up
Long Rob, who looked twice as sober as any of the men and had drunk
about twice as much as any three of them, when he criedWho's
for a dance again?Mistress
Melon had the toddy-jar filled fresh full and they carried that out,
everybody came to the barn this time except Mistress Munro,No,
no, I'll clear the table.
And young Elsie Ellison, wondering for why the creature
should stay behind, stayed herself and took a bit keek round the corner
of the door: and there was Mistress Munro, with a paper bag in her hand,
stuffing it with scones and biscuits and cake, and twisting her head
this side and that, like the head of a futret. So Elsie, fair scared,
ran off to the barn and caught at her father's tails and criedThe
Cuddiestoun wife's away home with the pieces,and
Ellison, he was whisked up to high tune by then, criedLet
her run to hell and be damned to her.
Syne he started a tale about how once she insulted him,
the dirty Scotch bitch. But Long Rob and Chae were striking up a dance
again and Chris heard no more of the Ellison story, dancing a waltz with
young Jock Gordon, it was like flying, Jock's face was white with
excitement. The fourth dance Alec Mutch, the fool, began to stiter the
floor, backwards and forwards, he was a real nuisance till he passed
Long Rob and then Rob criedHoots,
Alec, man, your feet are all wrong!and
thrust out a foot among Alec's and couped him down and Chae shoved him
aside to the straw with a foot and a hand, and played on with the other
foot and hand, or maybe with a foot and his teeth, a skilly man, Chae.
Mistress Mutch said nothing, just standing and laughing
and smoking at her cigarette. There were more men than women in the
barn, though, even when the men made do with a little quean, and soon
Chris found herself dancing with Mistress Mutch, the great, easy-going
slummock, she spoke slow and easy as though she'd just wakened up from
her sleep. Chris couldn't tell what way she looked with that gleying
eye, but what she spoke wasTake
things easy in married life, Chris, but not over-easy, that's been MY
ruin. Though God knows it'll make not a difference in a hundred years'
time and we're dead. Don't let Ewan saddle you with a birn full of
bairns, Chris, it kills you and eats your heart away, forbye the unease
and the dirt of it. Don't let him, Chris, they're all the same, men; and
you won't well steer clear of the first or the second. But you belong to
yourself, mind that.
Chris went hot and cold and then wanted to ask something
of Mistress Mutch and looked at her and found she couldn't, she'd just
have to find the thing out for herself. Long Rob came down to dance with
her next, he'd left the fiddle to old Gordon, and he asked what that
meikle slummock had been saying to her? And Chris saidOh,
just stite,and Rob saidMind,
don't let any of those damned women fear you, Chris; it's been the curse
of the human race, listening to advice.And
Chris saidBut I'm
listening to yours, Rob, now, amn't I?He
nodded to her, solemn, and said,Oh,
you've your head screwed on and you'll manage fine. But mind, if there's
ever a thing you want with a friend, not to speak it abroad all over
Kinraddie, I'll aye be there at the Mill to help you.Chris
thought that a daft-like speak for Rob, kind maybe he meant it, but
she'd have Ewan, who else could she want?
And then the fun slackened off, the barn was warm, folk
sat or lay on the benches or straw, Chris looked round and saw nothing
of the minister then, maybe he'd gone. She whispered to Chae about that,
but he saidDamn the
fears, he's out to be sick, can't you hear him like a cat with a
fish-bone in its throat?And
hear him they could, but Chris had been right after all, he didn't come
back. Maybe he was shamed and maybe he just lost his way, for next noon
there were folk who swore they'd seen the marks of great feet that
walked round and round in a circle, circle after circle, all across the
parks from Blawearie to the Manse; and if these weren't the minister's
feet they must have been the devil's, you could choose whichever you
liked.
No sooner was the dancing done than there were criesRob,
what about a song now, man?And
Rob saidOch, ay, I'll
manage that fine,and he off with his coat and loosened his collar
and sang themLadies of
Spain;and then he turned
round to where Chris stood beside her Ewan and sangThe
Lass that Made the Bed to Me:
Her hair was like the link o' gowd,
Her teeth were like the ivorie,
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
The lass that made the bed to me.
Her bosom was the driven snaw,
Two drifted heaps sae fair to see,
Her limbs, the polished marble stane,
The lass that made the bed to me.
I kissed her owre and owre again,
And aye she wist na what to say,
I laid her between me and the wa',
The lassie thought na long till day.
Folk stared and nodded at Chris while Rob was singing and
Ewan looked at first as though he'd like to brain him; and then he
blushed; but Chris just listened and didn't care, she thought the song
fine and the lass lovely, she hoped she herself would seem as lovely
this night--or as much of it as their dancing would leave. So she
clapped Rob and syne it was Ellison's turn, he stood up with his meikle
belly a-wag and sang them a song they didn't know:
Roses and lilies her cheeks disclose,
But her red lips are sweeter than those,
Kiss her, caress her,
With blisses her kisses,
Dissolve us in pleasure and soft repose.
and then another, an English one and awful sad, about a
young childe called Villikins and a quean called Dinah, and it finished:
For a cup of cold pizen lay there on the
ground
* * * * * *
With a tooril-i-ooril-i-oorily-i-ay.
Chae cried that was hardly the kind of thing that they
wanted, woeful as that; and they'd better give Chris a rest about her
roses an lips and limbs, she had them all in safe-keeping and would know
how to use them; and what about a seasonable song? And he sang so that
all joined in seasonable enough, for the snow had come on again in spite
of the frost:
Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early,
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw
I'm sure it's winter fairly!
Then Mistress Mutch sang, that was hardly expected, and
folk tittered a bit; but she had as good a voice as most and better than
some, she sangThe Bonnie
House o' Airlie,and then
theAuld Robin Greythat
eye brought Chris near to weeping, and did now, and not her alone, with
Rob's fiddle whispering it out, the sadness and the soreness of it,
though it was long, long syne:
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the
kye are a' at hame
And a' the weary world to its rest has gane,
The tears o' my sorrow fa' in shooers frae my e'e
And Auld Robin Gray he lies sound by me.
and all the tale of young Jamie who went to sea and was
thought to be drownded in an awful storm; and his lass married Auld
Robin Gray, and syne Jamie came back but couldn't win his lass away from
the auld man, though near brokenhearted she was:
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena' to
spin,
I daurna' think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin,
But I'll try aye my best a guid wife to be,
For Auld Robin Gray he is kind to me.
Old Pooty was sleeping in a corner; he woke up then, fell
keen to recite his TIMROUS BEASTIE; but they pulled him down and cried
on the bride herself for a song. And all she could think of was that
south country woman crying in the night by the side of her good man, the
world asleep and grey without; and she whispered the song to Rob and he
tuned his fiddle and she sang, facing them, young and earnest, and she
saw Ewan looking at her solemn and proud,The
Flowers of the Forest:
I've heard them lilting at our
ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning,
The Flooers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent oor lads tae the Border!
The English for ance, by guile wan the day,
The Flooers o' the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The pride o' oor land lie cauld in the clay.
Chae jumped up when she finished, he saidDamn't,
folk, we'll all have the whimsies if we listen to any more woesome
songs! Have none of you a cheerful one?And
the folk in the barn laughed at him and shook their heads, it came on
Chris how strange was the sadness of Scotland's singing, made for the
sadness of the land and sky in dark autumn evenings, the crying of men
and women of the land who had seen their lives and loves sink away in
the years, things wept for beside the sheep-ouchts, remembered at night
and in twilight. The gladness and kindness had passed, lived and
forgotten, it was Scotland of the mist and rain and the crying sea that
made the songs--And Chae criedLet's
have another dance, then, it's nearly a quarter to twelve, we must all
be off soon as midnight chaps.
And they all minded what midnight would bring, and Chae
and Rob had the melodeon and fiddle in hand again, and struck up an
eightsome, and everybody grabbed him a partner, it didn't matter who was
who, McIvor had Chris and danced with her as though he would like to
squeeze her to death, he danced light as thistle-down, the great red
Highlander; and no sooner was one dance finished than Rob and Chae swept
forward into another, they played like mad and the lights whipped and
jumped as the couples spun round and round; and the music went out
across the snowing night; and then Chae pulled out his great silver
watch, and laid it beside him, playing on.
And suddenly it was the New Year, the dancing stopped and
folk all shook hands, coming to shake Chris's and Ewan's; and Long Rob
struck up the sugary surge ofAuld
Lang Syneand they all
joined hands and stood in a circle to sing it, and Chris thought of Will
far over the seas in Argentine, under the hot night there. Then the
singing finished, they all found themselves tired, somebody began to
take down the barn lights, there was half an hour's scramble of folk
getting themselves into coats and getting their shivering sholts from
out the empty stalls in the byre. Then Chris and Ewan were handshook
again, Chris's arm began to ache, and then the last woof-woof of wheels
on snow thick-carpeted came up the Blawearie road to them, it was fell
uncanny that silence in the place after all the noise and fun of the
long, lit hours. And there was Mistress Melon in the kitchen-door,
yawning fit to swallow a horse, she whispered to ChrisI'm
taking your room now, don't forget,and
cried themGood night, and
a sound sleep, both!and
was up the stairs and left them alone.
He hardly seemed tired even then, though, Ewan, prowling
locking the doors like a great quiet cat till Chris called to him softlyOh,
sit by me!So he came to
the chair she sat in and picked her out of it, so strong he was, and
himself sat down, still holding her. They watched the fire a long time
and then Chris's head dropped down, she didn't know she had been asleep
till she woke to find Ewan shaking her,Chris, Chris, you're fair
done, come on to bed.The
fire was dying then and the paraffin had run low in the lamp, the flame
swithered and went out with a plop! as Ewan blew on it; and then they
were in the dark, going up the stairs together, past the room that had
been Chris's and where Mistress Melon slept for a night ere she went
back to Stonehaven.
And to Chris going up that stair holding the hand of her
man there came a memory of one with awful eyes and jutting beard, lying
in that room they came to, lying there and whispering and cursing her.
But she put the memory away, it had never happened, sad and daft to
remember that, she was tired. Then, with her hand on the door, Ewan
kissed her there in the dark, sweet and wild his kiss, she had not
thought he could kiss her like that, not as though he wanted her as a
man might do in that hour and place, but as though he minded the song he
had heard her sing. She put up her face to the kiss, forgetting
tiredness, suddenly she was wakeful as never she had been, the sleep
went out of her head and body and the chill with it, Ewan's hand came
over hers and opened the door.
A fire burned bright in the fireplace, they had thought
the place would be black and cold, but Mistress Melon had seen to that.
And there was the bridal bed, pulled out from the wall, all in white it
was, with sheet and blanket turned back, the window curtains were drawn,
and in the moment they stood breathing from their climb of the stairs
Chris heard the sound of the snow that stroked the window, with quiet,
soft fingers, as though writing there.
Then she forgot it, standing by the fire getting out of
her blue things, one by one. She found it sweet to do that, so slowly,
and to have Ewan kiss her at last when there was no bar to his kisses,
lying with him then, with the light put out and the radiance of the fire
on the walls and ceiling. And she turned towards him at last, whispering
and tender for him,We're
daft, we'll catch cold without anything on!and
then she saw his face beside her, solemn and strange, yet not strange at
all. And he put his left hand below her neck, and he took her close to
him, and they were one flesh, one and together; and far into the morning
she woke, and was not cold at all, him holding her so, and then she
heard again the hand of winter write on the window, and listened a
moment, happy, happy, and fell fast asleep till morning brought Mistress
Melon and two great cups of tea to waken Ewan and herself.
So that was her marriage, not like wakening from a dream
was marrying, but like going into one, rather, she wasn't sure, not for
days, what things they had dreamt and what actually done--she and this
farmer of Blawearie who would stir of a morning at the jangle of the
clock and creep from bed, the great cat, and be down the stairs to light
the fire and put on the kettle. She'd never be far behind him, though,
she loved even the bitterness of those frozen mornings, and a bitter
winter it was, every crack and joint of the old house played a spray of
cold wind across the rooms. He'd be gone to the byre and stable as she
came down and sought out the porridge meal and put it to boil,
Blawearie's own meal, fine rounded stuff that Ewan so liked. She'd leave
it to hotter there on the fire and then bring the pails from the dairy
and open the kitchen door on the close and gasp in the bite of the wind,
seeing a grey world on the edge of morning, the bare stubble of the ley
riding quick on the close, peering between the shapes of the stacks, the
lights of the lanterns shining in byre and stable and barn as Ewan
feeded and mucked and tended horses and kye.
And the byre would hang heavy with the breaths of the kye,
they'd have finished their turnips as she came in, and Ewan would come
swinging after her with a great armful of straw to spread them in front,
he'd tickle her neck as she sat to milk and she'd cryYour
hand's freezing!and he'd
sayAway, woman, you're
still asleep. Up in the morning's the thing!and
go whistling out to the stable, Clyde and Bess stamping there, getting
fell cornfilled and frolicsome, they more than wanted exercise. She
would carry the milk back herself most mornings and make the breakfast,
but sometimes Ewan would come with her, so young and daft they were,
folk would have laughed to see them at that, both making breakfast and
sitting them close to eat it.
Then Ewan would light his pipe when he'd done and sit and
smoke while she finished more slowly; and then he'd say that he'd meat
the hens, and she'd tell him not to haver, she'd do that herself, and
he'd argue, maybe sulk, till she kissed him back to his senses again.
Then he'd laugh and get up and get down John Guthrie's gun, and be out
and up in the moors till eleven, sometimes he'd bring a great bag and
Chris would sell the spare rabbits to the grocer that came on Tuesdays.
There was little to be done, such weather on Blawearie.
Ewan tidied the barn they'd danced in, it seemed years ago since that
night, and got ready plough and sock and coulter for the time when the
weather would break. And then he found the bruised corn running low in
the great kist there, that was his first out-going from the place since
his marriage, Chris watched him go, sitting in the front of the
box-cart, Clyde in the shafts, the cart loaded down with corn for the
Mill, and Ewan turning to wave to her from the foot of Blawearie brae.
And all that afternoon he was away she fretted from room to room, oh!
she was a fool, there was nothing could happen to him! And when at last
he came back she ran out to him, fair scared he was at the way she
looked, and thought her ill, and when she cried she had missed him so he
went white and then blushed, just a boy still, and forgot to unyoke
Clyde left in the cold, he was kissing Chris instead. And faith! for the
bairns of farmers both they might well have had more sense.
But, and it crept into her mind that night and came often
in the morning and days that followed, somehow that going of Ewan's to
the Mill had ended the foolishness that shut them in fast from Kinraddie
and all the world, they two alone, with all the gladness that was theirs
alone and her kisses the most that Ewan'd ever seek and his kisses
ending days and nights, and almost life itself for her. Kinraddie came
in again, something of her own cool reliance came back, the winter wore
on to its close, and mid-February brought the sun, weather that might
well have come out of a May.
Looking out from her window as every morning still she
did, Chris saw the steam of the lands below the house, it was as though
the earth had swung round the fields of Kinraddie into the maw of the
sun, a great furnace, and left them there to dry. The hills marched
their great banners of steam into the face of each sunrise and through
the whisper and wakening and shrouding of the morning came presently the
moan of the foghorn at Todhead, a dreadful bellow, like a sore-sick
calf, it went on and on, long after the mist had cleared, it rose and
faded into the sun-dazzle overhead as great clouds of gulls came
wheeling in from the sea. They knew what was toward on Kinraddie's land,
Chris heard the call of them as she went about the day's work, and
looked out on the ley field then, there was Ewan with the horses,
ploughing his first rig, bent over the shafts, one foot in the drill,
one the rig side, the ploughshare, sharp and crude and new, cleaving the
red-black clay. The earth wound back like a ribbon and curved and lay;
and the cloud of gulls cawed and screamed and pecked on the rig and
followed at Ewan's heels again.
All over Kinraddie there were horse-pairs out, though
none so early as Ewan's, it seemed, folk had stayed undecided about the
weather, they'd other things to do, they'd say, than just wait about to
show off like that young Blawearie. But, when the day rose and at nine
Chris set her a jug of tea in a basket, and set by it scones well
buttered and jammed, and carried out the basket to Ewanwishingup
the face of the rig, Chae Strachan, far away and below, was a-bend above
his plough-shafts at the tail of his team, Upperhill had two pairs in
the great park that loitered up to the larch-wood, and there was
Cuddiestoun's pair, you guessed it him and his horses, though they never
came full in sight, their heads and backs just skimmed the verge of the
wood and hill.
Spring had come and was singing and rilling all over the
fields, you listened and heard, it was like listening to the land new
wake, to the burst and flow of a dozen burns in this ditch and that; and
when you turned out the cattle for their first spring dander, in case
they went off the legs, they near went off the face of the earth
instead, daft and delighted, they ran and scampered and slid, Chris was
feared that the kye would break their legs. She tried driving them down
to the old hayfield, but the steers broke loose and held down the road,
and Ewan saw them and left his plough and chased them across the parks,
swearing blue murder at them as he ran; and faith! if it hadn't been for
the postman meeting them and turning them at the end of the road they
might well have been running still.
Chris had known then mazes of things to do in that bright
coming of the weather, the house was all wrong, it was foul and
feckless, Ewan unyoking at midday would come in and make hardly his way
through the kitchen, heaped high with the gear of some room, Chris saw
her long hands grow sore and red with the scrubbing she did on the sour
old walls. Ewan said she was daft, the place was fine, what more did she
want? And she saidLess
dirt;and that maybe he
liked dirt, she didn't; and he laughedWell,
maybe I do, I like you right well!and put his arm round her
shoulders and they stood and kissed in the mid of the heaped and
littered kitchen--awful to be like that, said Chris, they could hardly
be sane.
In March the weather broke, the rain came down in
plashing pelts, you could hardly see a hand's-length in front of your
face if you ran through the close. Ewan sat in the barn, winnowing corn
or tying ropes, or just smoking and swearing out at the rain. Chae
Strachan came up for a talk on the second day, all in oilskins he came;
and he sat in the barn with Ewan and said he'd seen it rain like this in
Alaska, and the mountains move when the snows were melting. And Ewan
said he didn't care a damn though Alaska moved under the sea the morn,
when would it clear on Blawearie? Munro came next, then Mutch of Bridge
End, they'd nothing on their hands but watch the rain and shake their
heads and swear they were all fair ruined.
But at last it went, the unending rain of a fortnight
went, and that morning they woke and found it fine, Ewan took him a look
at the land from the bedroom window and prompt lay back in the bed
again.Damn Blawearie and
all that's on't, let's have a holiday the day, Chris quean.She
saidI can't, I'm cleaning
the garret,and Ewan got
angered, she'd never seen him angry like that before, Highland and
foreign then, spitting like a cat.Are
you to spend all your days cleaning damned rooms? You'll be old and
wizened and a second Mistress Munro before you're well twenty. Off on a
holiday we're going to-day.
And, secretly glad, she lay back, lying with her hands
under her head, lazy, and looking at him, thinking how different he was
from that lad she'd tramped to Dunnottar with, so close she knew him
now, the way he thought and the things he liked and his kindness and
slowness to take offence, and the bitter offence, how it rankled in him,
once it was there! Like and not like what she'd thought and wanted in
those days before they had married. Spite of their closest moments
together, Ewan could still blush at a look or a touch of hers; she
touched him then to make sure, and he did! He saidHold
off! you're a shameless limmer, for sure, and not nineteen yet. Come on,
let's get out and get off.
So they raced through the morning's work and by nine were
down at the Peesie's Knapp, and borrowed Chae's gig and heard Chae
promise to milk and take in Blawearie's kye. Then out they drove and
swung left through Kinraddie, into the Laurencekirk road, the sun
shining and the peewits calling, there were snipe in a loch they passed,
the North Sea was gloom-away by Bervie as the sholtie trotted south. You
could see then as the land rose higher the low parks that sloped to the
woods and steeple of Drumlithie, beyond that the hills of Barras, the
Reisk in its hollow among its larch-woods. West of that rose Arbuthnott,
a fair jumble of bent and brae, Fordoun came marching up the horizon in
front of them then, and they were soon going through it. Ewan said if he
bided in Fordoun he'd lay his neck on the railway line and invite the
Flying Scotsman to run over it, so tired he'd be of biding in a place
that looked like a barn painted by a man with nothing but thumbs and a
squint in both eyes.
But Chris liked the little place, she'd never seen it
before and the farms that lay about it, big and rich, with fine black
loam for soil, different from the clay of bleak Blawearie. Ewan saidTo
hell with them and their fine land too, they're not farmers, them, only
lazy muckers that sit and make silver out of their cotters;and
he said he'd rather bide in a town and wear a damned apron than work in
this countryside. And then they were near Laurencekirk, the best of
weather the day held still, Laurencekirk looked brave in the forenoon
stir, with its cattle mart and its printing office where they printed
weekly theKincardineshire
Observer,folk called itThe
Squeakerfor short. It
had aye had a hate for Stonehaven, Laurencekirk, and some said that it
should be the county capital, but others said God help the capital that
was entrusted to it; and would speak a bit verse that Thomas the Rhymour
had made, how ere Rome--
became a great imperial city,
Twas peopled first, as we are told,
By pirates, robbers, thieves, banditti;
Quoth Tammas: 'Then the day may come
When Laurencekirk shall equal Rome.'
And when Laurencekirk folk heard that they would laugh,
not nearly cry as they did in Drumlithie when you mocked at their
steeple, or smile sick and genteel as they did in Stonehaven when you
spoke of the poverty toffs. Ewan said it was a fine town, he liked
Laurencekirk, and they'd stop and have dinner there.
So they did, it was fine to eat food that another had
cooked. Then they looked at the day and saw how it wore and planned to
drive over to Edzell Castle--There's nothing to see there but a
ruckle of stones,said
Ewan,but
you'll like them fine, no doubt.
So they did as they'd planned, the afternoon flew, it was
golden and green. Under Drumtochty Hill they passed, Ewan told that in
summer it came deeper with the purple of heather than any other hill in
Scotland; but it hung dark and asleep like a great cloud scraping the
earth as they trotted past. There was never a soul at the castle but
themselves, they climbed and clambered about in the ruins, stone on
stone they were crumbling away, there were little dark chambers in the
angle walls that had sheltered the bowmen long syne. Ewan said they must
fair have been fusionless folk, the bowmen, to live in places like that;
and Chris laughed and looked at him, queer and sorry, and glimpsed the
remoteness that her books had made.
She was glad to be out in the sun again, though, clouds
were racing it up from the North and Ewan said they'd not need to loiter
long. In the garden of the castle they wandered from wall to wall,
looking at the pictures crumbling there, balls and roses and rings and
callipers, and wild heraldic beasts without number, Ewan said he was
glad that they'd all been killed. But Chris didn't laugh at him, she
knew right well that such beasts had never been, but she felt fey that
day, even out here she grew chill where the long grasses stood in the
sun, the dead garden about them with its dead stone beasts of an
ill-stomached fancy.
Folk rich and brave, and blithe and young as themselves,
had once walked and talked and taken their pleasure here, and their play
was done and they were gone, they had no name or remembered place, even
in the lands of death they were maybe forgotten, for maybe the dead died
once again, and again went on. And, daft-like, she tried to tell Ewan
that whimsy, and he stared at her, pushing his cap from his brow, and
looked puzzled and saidAy,half-heartedly;
he didn't know what she blithered about. She laughed then and turned
away from him, angry at herself and her daftness; but once she'd thought
there wouldn't be a thing they wouldn't understand together.
And the rain that had held away all the day came down at
last and caught them on their way back home, overtaking them near to
Laurencekirk, in a blinding surge that they watched come hissing across
the fields, the sholtie bent its head to the storm and trotted on
cannily, it grew dark all of a moment and Ewan found there was never a
lamp on Chae's bit gig. He swore at Chae and then drove in silence, and
the wind began to rise as they came on the long, bare road past Fordoun,
near lifting the sholt from its feet; and out in the darkness they heard
the foghorn moaning by Todhead lighthouse. They were a pair of drookéd
rats when they turned the gig into the close at Peesie's Knapp, and Chae
cried to them to come in and dry, but they wouldn't, they ran all the
way to Blawearie and the wet trees were creaking in the wind as they
reached to their door.
Now that was the last wet day of the Spring and to Chris
the weeks began to slip by like posts you glimpse from the fleeing
window of a railway train in a day of summer--light and shade and marled
wood, light and shade, and the whoom of the train, life itself seemed to
fly like that up through the Spring, Ewan had the corn land all ploughed
and sown himself almost early as was the Mains; only in the yavil did
Chris go out and carry the corn for him.
And that she liked fine, not a chave and a weariness as
it was with father, Ewan brisk and cheerful with the smoulder gone from
his eyes, they had settled to a clear, slow shining, it seemed to Chris,
now he had his own home and wife. Then in the days of the harrowing
Chris drove the harrows while he carted manure to the turnip-land, she
was glad that she hadn't that work, glad to tramp behind the horses
instead, with kilted skirts, a switch in her hand and the reins there
and the horses plod-plodding steadily, they knew her fine, and she
spoiled them with bits of loaf and jam so that Ewan, coming to drive
them himself, cried vexedly,Hold
up your head from my pockets, Clyde! What the hell are you
sniff-sniff-sniffing for?
Then he went down to Stonehaven and bought a new sower
and sowed the turnips; and the night he finished and unloosed and came
back to the biggings for his supper, he couldn't find Chris though he
called and called. She heard him calling and didn't answer, herself
lying out in the garden under the beeches, brave and green and rustling
their new Spring leaves, whispering without cease over her head that was
buried in the grass while she lay and thought. A little insect ran over
her hand and she hated it, but it mightn't disturb her for this time at
the least, nothing might do that, she lay so certain and still because
of this thing that had come to her.
She felt neither gladness nor pain, only dazed, as though
running in the fields with Ewan she had struck against a great stone,
body and legs and arms, and lay stunned and bruised, the running and the
fine crying in the sweet air still on about her, Ewan running free and
careless still not knowing or heeding the thing she had met. The days of
love and holidaying and the foolishness of kisses--they might be for him
yet but never the same for her, dreams were fulfilled and their days put
by, the hills climbed still to sunset but her heart might climb with
them never again and long for to-morrow, the night still her own. No
night would she ever be her own again, in her body the seed of that
pleasure she had sown with Ewan burgeoning and growing, dark, in the
warmth below her heart. And Chris Guthrie crept out from the place below
the beech trees where Chris Tavendale lay and went wandering off into
the waiting quiet of the afternoon, Chris Tavendale heard her go, and
she came back to Blawearie never again.
But she did not tell Ewan, not that night nor the week
that followed, nor the weeks after that, watching her own body with a
secret care and fluttering eyes for the marks and stigmata of this thing
that had come to her. And she saw her breast nipples change and harden
and grow soft again, the breasts that Ewan had kissed and thought the
wonder of God, a maid's breasts a maid's no longer, changing in slow
rhythm of purpose with the sway and measure of each note in the rhythm,
her belly rounding to plumpness below the navel, she looked in the glass
and saw also her eyes changed, deeper and most strange, with red lights
and veinings set in them.
And in the silences of the night, when the whit-owl had
quieted out by the barn, once something moved there under her heart,
moved and stirred drowsily, a sleeper from dreams; and she gasped and
cried and then lay still, not wakening Ewan, for this was her rig and
furrow, she had brought him the unsown field and the tending and reaping
was hers, even as with herself when she lay in her own mother's body.
And she thought of that, queer it seemed then how unclearly she had
thought of that aforetime, shamed, indecent and coarse for a quean to
think of such things--that her mother had once carried her as seed and
fruit and dark movingness of flesh hid away within her.
And she wakened more fully at that, lying thinking while
Ewan slept at her side, turned away from him, thinking of mother, not as
her mother at all, just as Jean Murdoch, another woman who had faced
this terror-daze in the night. They went sleepless in the long, dark
hours for the fruitage of love that the sower slept all unaware, they
were the plants that stood dark and quiet in the night, unmoving,
immobile, the bee hummed home and away, drowsy with treasure, and
another to-morrow for the hunting his.
So was the way of things, there was the wall and the
prison that you couldn't break down, there was nothing to be
done--nothing, though your heart stirred from its daze and suddenly the
frozenness melted from you and still you might not sleep. . . . But now
it was because of that babble of words that went round and around in
your mind, soundless and scared of your lips, a babble of hours in the
hills and loitering by lochs and the splendour of books and sleeping
secure--babble of a world that still marched and cried beyond the prison
walls, fair and unutterable its loveliness still outside the doors of
Blawearie house, mocked by its ghost, a crying in the night for things
that were lost and foregone and ended.
It quietened away then, morning came tapping at the
window, she turned and slept, sleeping exhausted, rising with white face
and slow steps so that she was long in the kitchen. And Ewan came
hasting in, hurried that morning, the first of the turnips were pushing
their thin, sweet blades of grass above the drills, he wanted to be out
to them.Damn't, Chris,
are you still asleep?he
cried, half-laughing, half-angry, and Chris said nothing, going back to
the dairy, Ewan stared and then moved uneasily and followed her with
hesitant feet,What's
wrong? What's up?
Turning to look at him, suddenly Chris knew that she
hated him, standing there with the health in his face, clear of
eyes--every day they grew clearer here in the parks he loved and thought
of noon, morning and night; that, and the tending to beasts and the
grooming of horses, herself to warm him at night and set him his meat by
day.What are you
glowering for?he asked,
and she spoke then at last, calmly and thinly,For
God's sake don't deave me. Must you aye be an old wife and come trailing
after me wherever I go?
He flinched like a horse with the lash on its back, his
eyes kindled their smoky glow, but he swung round and away from her.You're
out of bed the wrong side this morning,and
out he went. She was sorry then, wanted to cry to him, dropped the pails
to run after him, when he spoilt it all, crying from the middle of the
close:And
I'd like my breakfast before the night comes down.
It was as though she were dry whin and his speech a fire
to it, she ran out and overtook him there in the close, catching his
shoulder and whirling him round, so surprised he was that he almost
fell.Speak to me like
that?she cried,Do
you think I'm your servant? You're mine, mind that, living off my meat
and my milk, you Highland pauper! . . .More
than that she said, so she knew, no memory of the words abided with her,
it was a blur of rage out of which she came with Ewan holding her
shoulders and shaking her:You
damned bitch, you'd say that to me? To me? . . .he
was glaring like a beast, then he seemed to crumple, his hands fell from
her.Och,
you're ill, you should be in your bed!
He left her in the close then, striding to the barn, she
stood like a fool with the tears of rage and remorse blinding her eyes.
And as she went back to the kitchen and came out with the pails Ewan
went striding away over the fields, his hoe on his shoulder, it was
barely yet light, he was going to the parks without his breakfast.
Milking the kye she hurried, her anger dying away, hurrying to be
finished and have the breakfast ready, for he'd sure to be back again
soon.
So she planned; but Ewan didn't come back. The porridge
hottered to a thick, tough mess, beyond the raised blind the day broke
thick and evilly red, hot like a pouring steam across the hills; the tea
grew cold. Herself half-desperate with hunger she waited, couldn't sit,
wandering from fire to door and door to table; and then she caught sight
on the dresser of the whistle that had lain by father while he lay in
paralysis in bed, and snatched it down, and all in a moment had run over
the close to the lithe of the corn ricks.
Shading her eyes she saw Ewan then, down in the
turnip-park, swinging steady and quick in lunge and recovery,
Kinraddie's best hoer. Then she whistled to him loud and clear down
through the morning, half Kinraddie must have heard the blast, but he
took no notice. Then she went desperate in a way, she stopped from
whistling and screamed to him,Ewan,
Ewan!and at her first
scream he looked up and dropped his hoe--he'd heard her whistling all
right, the thrawn swine! She screamed again, he was running by then over
the parks to the close; him not ten yards away she screamed a third
time, hurting her throat, but she did it calmly, anger boiled in her,
yet in a way she was cool enough.
And Ewan criedGod,
Chris, have you gone clean daft? What are you screaming for, what do you
want?He towered up above
her, angry, amazed, it was then that she knew for sure, she gathered up
all the force in her voice and body for the reply that sprang to her
lips and the thing that followed it.That!she
said, and struck him across the face with her arm's full force, her
fingers cried agony and then went numb, on Ewan's face a great red mark
sprang up, the clap of the blow went echoing around the Blawearie
biggings.
So she saw and heard, only a moment, next minute he was
at her himself like a cat, her head rang and dirled as he struck her
twice, she tried to keep her footing and failed and fell back, against
the rick-side, clutching at the thing, staring feared at Ewan, the
madness on his face, his fists coming up again.Get
up, get up!he cried,Damn
you, get up!and she knew
he would strike her again, and rising shielded her face with her arm,
trying to cram back the sobs in her throat, too late for that. Dizzy,
she saw him in front of her swaying and moving, she couldn't see him but
she criedNo, no!and
turned then and ran stumbling up through the close, up the hill to the
moor. Twice he called as she ran, the second time so that nearly she
stopped,Chris, Chris,
come back!in a voice
that was breaking as her own had been. But she couldn't stop running, a
hare that the snare had whipped.Never
again, never again, the loch, the loch!she
sobbed as she ran and panted, the Standing Stones wheeling up from the
whins to peer with quiet faces then in her face.
A quarter of an hour, half an hour, how long had she lain
and dozed? Still morning in the air, she was soaked with dew. She turned
and half-rose, heard the whistling of the broom and sank down again.
It was Ewan by the moor-gate, searching, he'd stopped to
stare at the loch, thinking the thing she had thought, not seeing her
yet. She sighed. She felt tired as though she had worked a great day in
the sweat of the land, but Ewan would see to her, Ewan would take heed.
So she raised her voice and called to him and he came.
It seemed to her that but hardly could she have left the
place since that May-day more than six years ago when Ewan had come
seeking her through the red, evil weather. She closed her eyes and put
out a hand against the greatest of the Standing Stones, the coarse
texture of the stone leapt cold to her hand, for a shivering wind blew
down the hills. She started at thought of another thing then, opening
her eyes to look round; but there he was, still and safe as he stood and
looked at her. She criedStay
by me, Ewan!and he came
running to her side; and she caught his hand and closed her eyes again,
praying in a wild compassion of pity for that Ewan whose hand lay far
from hers.
Six years: Spring rains and seeding, harvests and winters
and springs again since that day that Ewan had come seeking her here
with his white, chill face that kindled to warmth and well-being when
she called him at last. She'd cried in his arms then, tired and tired,
as he carried her down the hill; and the rage was quite gone from him,
he bore her into the house and up to their bed, and patted her hand, and
saidBide you quiet!and
went off down the hill at a run.
So she learned he had run, and to Peesie's Knapp, but she
didn't know then, she sank and sank away into sleep, and awakened long
after with Ewan and still another man come in the room, it was Meldrum
from Bervie, the doctor. He peeled off his gloves from his long white
hands, and peered at her like a hen with his gley, sharp eye.What's
this you've been doing, Chris Guthrie?
He didn't wait a reply but caught up her hand and wrist
and listened, still like a hen, head on one side while Ewan stared at
him greyly. Then he saidWell,
well, that's fine, let's see a bit more of you, young Mistress
Tavendale.
While he listened with the funny things at his ears and
the end of it on her chest, she closed her eyes, ill no longer though
drowsy still, and peeked sideways at Ewan, smiling at him. And then the
doctor moved his stethoscope further down, it tickled her bared skin
there and she knew he knew, and he straightened upAnd
you tell me you didn't know what the thing was, Chris Tavendale?
She saidOh,
yes,and he saidBut
not Ewan?and she shook
her head and they both laughed at Ewan standing there staring from one
to the other, black hair unbrushed, she had gone near to killing him
that morning. And then Dr. Meldrum shook him by the arm,You're
going to be a father, Blawearie man, what think you of that? Away and
make me a cup of tea while Chris and I go into more intimate
details--you needn't bide, she's safe enough with an old man, bonny
though she be.
All that he said as canny as ordering a jug of milk, Ewan
gasped, and made to speak, and couldn't but his face was blithe as he
turned and ran down the stairs. They heard him singing below and old
Meldrum cocked his head to the side and listened,Damned
easy for him to sing, eh, Chris? But you'll sing yourself when this
bairn of yours comes into the world. Let's see if everything's right.
It was. He put his hand on her shoulder when he finished
and gave her a shake.A
body as fine and natural and comely as a cow or a rose, Chris Guthrie.
You'll have no trouble and you needn't fret. But look after yourself,
eat vegetables, and be still as kind to Ewan as the wear of the months
will let you be. Good for him and good for you.She
nodded to that, understanding, and he gave her another shake and went
down to Ewan, and drank the tea that Ewan had made, if tea it was, which
you doubted later when you smelt the cups.
Ewan knowing, Meldrum knowing, it was as though a bank
had gone down behind which she had dreamt a torrent and a storm would
burst and blind and whelm her. But there was nothing there but the corn
growing and the peewits calling, summer coming, marching up each morning
with unbraided hair, the dew rising in whorling mists from the urgent
corn that carpeted Ewan's trim fields. Nothing to fear and much to do,
most of all to tell Ewan not to fret, she wasn't a doll, she'd be safe
as a cow though she hoped to God she didn't quite look like one. And
Ewan saidYou look fine,
bonnier than ever,saying
it solemnly, meaning it, and she was glad, peeking at herself in the
long mirror when she was alone, seeing gradually that smooth rounding of
belly and hips below her frock--lucky she had never that ugliness that
some poor folk have to bear, awful for them.
She took pleasure in being herself, in being as before,
not making a difference, cooking and baking and running to the parks
with the early morning piece for Ewan, he'd cryDon't
run!and she'd cryDon't
blether!and reach beside
him, and sink down beside him midway the long potato rows he was hoeing,
growing low and broad and well-branched, the shaws, it was set a fine
year for potatoes. And as he sat and ate she'd gather his coat below her
head for a pillow, and lean back with her arms outspread in the sun, and
make of that few minutes her resting-time, listening to Ewan on the
crops and the weather that was so good folk didn't believe it could
last, there must soon be a break of the fine interplay of the last two
months.
That was late in June he said that, and all the dour Howe
watched the sky darkly, certain some trick was onup
there.For the rain that
was needed came in the night, just enough, not more, as though cannily
sprinkled, and the day would be fine with sun, you couldn't want better;
but it wasn't in the nature of things it would last. And Chris said,
dreamily,Maybe things are
changing for the better all round,and
Ewan saidDamn the fears!his
gaze far off and dark and intent, the crops and the earth in his bones
and blood, and she'd look in his face and find content, not jealous or
curious or caring though she herself found in his eyes a place with the
crops and land. And she'd close her eyes in the sun-dazzle then, in the
smell, green, pungent, strong and fine, of the coming potato shaws, and
sometimes she'd doze and waken sun-weary, Ewan working a little bit off,
not clattering his hoe lest she wake.
She made up her mind she'd have the baby born in the room
that had once been her own. So she rubbed it and scrubbed it till it
shone again and brought out the bed mattress and hung it to air, in the
garden, between the beeches, all in leaf they were, so thick. You could
hardly see the sky looking up in that malachite, whispering dome; and by
as she looked came Long Rob of the Mill to settle his bills with Ewan,
he saw Chris then and came to lean on the hedge, hatless, and long as
ever, with the great moustaches and the iron blue eyes.
And he picked a sprig of the honeysuckle and bit it
between his teeth.This'll
be for the son, eh, Chris? And when are you having him born?She
saidLate September or
early October, I think,and
Rob shook his head, it wasn't the best time for bairns, though feint the
fear for hers. And he laughed as he leaned there, minding something, and
he told Chris of the thing, his own mother it was, the wife of a crofter
down in the Reisk. She'd had her twelve children in sixteen years, nine
of them died, Rob was the oldest and only a lad and he'd seen the
youngest of his brothers born.Seen?
I helped, think of that, Chris quean!And
think she did and she shivered, and Rob saidThat
was daft, the telling of that. But things are fair right with you, then,
Chris?
So maybe, going home, he told of Blawearie's news; soon
Kinraddie knew more than did Chris herself. Folk began to trail in about
in the quiet of an evening, out of ill-fashionce, and nothing much more,
they'd gley sidewise at Chris as they'd argue with Ewan, syne home they
would go and tell it was true,Ay,
there'll soon be a family Blawearie way, Chris must have fair have taken
at the first bit sett.But
others knew better, Mutch and Munro, and the speak went round that the
taking was well ere the marriage, Ewan had married the quean when she
threatened him with law. Kinraddie mouthed that over, it was toothsome
and tasty, and the speak came creeping up to Blawearie, Chris never knew
how she heard it. But she did, Ewan did, and he swore to go out and kick
the backsides of Mutch and Munro till they'd dream of sitting as a
pleasure and a passion. And off he'd have set in the rage of the moment
but Chris caught him and held him, that would only be daft, folk would
think it the truer, the scandal; and if it made them the happier to
think as they did, let them think!
And then it seemed to Chris that her world up Blawearie
brae began to draw in, in and about her and the life she carried, that
moved now often and often, turning slow under her heart in the early
days, but jerking with suddenness, a moment at a stretch now, sometimes,
so that she would sit and gasp with closed eyes. In, nearer and nearer
round herself and the house the days seemed to creep, Will in Argentine
was somebody she'd met in a dream of the night, Aberdeenshire far away,
nothing living or moving but shadows in sunlight or night outside the
circle of the hills and woods she saw from Blawearie's biggings. Then
fancies came on her and passed, but were daft and straining and strange
while they lasted, she couldn't break herself of the things, they'd to
wear and fade at their own bit gait.
One night it was that she couldn't touch kye, Ewan had to
do the milking himself, sore puzzled and handless he was but she
couldn't help that, though next morning she laughed at herself, what was
there to fear in the milking of kye? Then came the day when they drove
Chae Strachan's sheep to the buchts and the libbing of the lambs went on
till it nearly drove her mad, the thin young baaing that rose an
unending plaint, the folk with their pipes and knives and the blood that
ran in the sunlight. All in a picture it rose to her on the sound of
that baaing, and she hid in the dairy at last, the only place that shut
out the sound.
But another fad, and the one that lasted the longest, was
fear that all sounds would go, fear of the night when it might be so
nearly still, Ewan sleeping with his head in his arm as he sometimes
did, soundless, till she'd think him dead and shake him to a sleepy
wakefulness; and he'd askWhat's
wrong? Have I been stealing the blankets from you?and
she'd sayYes,ashamed
to let him know of that fear of hers.
So she found the days blithe enough then, the scraich and
scratch of hens in the close, the sound of the mower that Ewan drove up
and down the rigs of the hay, the mooing of the calves wild-plagued with
flies. Clyde's neighing to a passing stallion. Only night was the time
to be feared, if she woke and there was that stillness; but even the
quietest night if she listened hard she'd hear the wisp-wisp of the
beech leaves near to the window, quietening her, comforting her, she
never knew why, as though the sap that swelled in branch and twig were
one with the blood that swelled the new life below her navel, that
coming day in the months to be a thing she'd share with that whisperer
out in the darkness.
And oh, but the time was long! She could almost have
wished that she and Ewan had bedded unblessed as Mutch said they had,
the baby would have been here by now and not still to come, still
waiting harvest and stooking and the gathering of stooks. But it lay
with her, warm and shielded, and saw with her the growth and ripening of
that autumn's corn, yellow and great, and the harvest moons that came so
soon in that year, red moons a-slant and a-tilt on the rim of the earth
they saw as they went to bed, you felt it another land and another world
that hung there in the quietness of the sky.
One night, the mid-days of August as they sat at meat,
the door burst open and in strode Chae Strachan, a paper in his hand,
and was fell excited, Chris listened and didn't, a war was on, Britain
was to war with Germany. But Chris didn't care and Ewan didn't either,
he was thinking of his close that the weather might ruin; so Chae took
himself off with his paper again, and after that, though she minded it
sometimes, Chris paid no heed to the war, there were aye daft devils
fighting about something or other, as Ewan had said; and God! they could
fight till they were black and blue for all that he cared if only the
ley field would come on a bit faster, it was near fit for cutting but
the straw so short it fair broke your heart.
And out he'd go in the evening light, down to the ley
park and poke about there, rig to rig, as though coaxing the straw to
grow and grow in the night for his delight in the morning. A bairn with
a toy, Chris thought, laughing as she watched him then; and then came
that movement in her body as she watched Ewan still--a mother with his
child he was, the corn his as this seed of his hers, burgeoning and
ripening, growing to harvest.
The corn was first. Up and down the rigs on his brave new
binder, Clyde and Bess each aside the pole, rode Ewan; and the corn bent
and was smitten on the flyboard, and gathered up on the forking teeth
and wound and bound and ejected. Up and down went the whirling arms, and
fine harvest weather came then in Kinraddie, though it rained in Dee,
folk said, and down in Forfar the year was wet. Park by park Ewan rode
it down, Chris still could carry him a piece as he worked, but she
walked slow now, careful and slow, and he'd jump from the binder and
come running and meet her, and down he would sit her in the lithe of a
stook while he stood and ate, his gaze as ever on the fields and sky,
there was still the harvest to finish.
But finished it was, September's end, and there came a
blatter of rain next day, Chris saw the coming of the rain and the
bright summer went as the stook stood laden and tall in the fields. And
Chris found herself sick, a great pain came and gripped at her breast,
at her thighs, she criedEwan!and
nearly fell and he ran to her. They stared in each other's faces,
hearing the rain, and then again the pain drove through and through
Chris like a heated sword, and she set her teeth and shook Ewan free,
she knew the things she'd to do.It'll
maybe be a long time yet, but get Chae to drive for the doctor and
nurse. He'll bring the nurse back from Bervie, Chae.
Ewan stood and stared and his face was working, she
smiled at him then though the pain of the sword was as nothing now, iron
hooks were tearing in her body instead, rusty and dragging and blunt.
She held up her face to be kissed and kept her teeth fast and saidHurry,
though I'm fine!and syne
watched him run down the road to the Knapp. Then, white, in a daze of
pain, she began to walk backwards and forwards on the kitchen floor, as
she knew she must do to bring on the birth quick, everything else was
ready and waiting in the room upstairs. And after a while the pain waned
and went, but she knew it would soon be back.
So she filled her a hot-water bottle and almost ran up
the stairs to put it in the bed, almost running lest the pain come
midway and catch her unaware. But it held off still, she smoothed out
the sheets, brought out the rubber one she'd had bought, and tied that
down, firm and strong, and set the great basin on the rug by the window
and wondered what else there might be. Then she saw her face in the
glass, it was flushed and bright and her eyes all hot; and suddenly she
thought how strange it would be if she died, like the many women who
died in childbed, she felt well and strong, they had felt the same,
strange to think that her face might be dead and still in another day,
that face that she looked at now, it couldn't be hers, it was still the
face of a quean.
From the window she saw Ewan running back and as she
reached to the foot of the stairs to meet him the pain came on her
again, she had to sit down. But that was daft, it would make it last
longer, she struggled to her feet and walked in the kitchen again, Ewan
was in the doorway, a white blur of a face and nothing else unless she
looked at him hard and hard. He kept sayingChris,
go and lie down!and she
opened her mouth and gasped and meant to tell him she was fine; and
instead found herself swearing and swearing, terrible words she hadn't
known she knew, they were wrung from her lips as she went stumbling to
and fro, better than screaming, women screamed, but she wouldn't.
And then came relief again, the kitchen straightened and
she sat down, Ewan emerged from his blur and made her tea. Something
kept worrying her--what was he to have for his dinner? She couldn't
remember the thing she'd intended, and gave it up, her tormentors were
nearby again.Boil
yourself an egg, Ewan!she
gasped, and he didn't understand, he thought it something she wanted--Boil
what?And at that a
frenzy of irritation came on her,Oh,
boil your head if you like!and
she dragged herself to her feet, the clock on the mantelshelf was
expanding and contracting, its dial blurred and brightened as she stood.
And then she was sure, she criedEwan,
help me up to the room,for she knew that her time had come.
What happened then she didn't know, there came a clear
patch and she found herself nude, all but a stocking, it wouldn't come
off, she sat on the bedside and tried, Ewan tried, it was so funny she
giggled in spite of the pain. And then she saw Ewan's face, it had grown
to the face of an old man, now, she must lie and get him out of the
room. She criedMind the
fire, Ewan, there's no wood there, run and hack some,and
when he was out of the room she could heed to herself and her agony at
last; and she bit the sheets, she rolled herself tight in a ball, the
pain seemed to go for a moment, maybe she had smothered the baby, she
didn't care, she couldn't abide it, not through hours and hours and days
and days, for weeks it had gone on now, she had seen the room darken and
lighten and night come, tormented by Ewan and father her body, and Will
was dead, they had tortured him first.
She criedWill!then
and opened her eyes from an hour-long sleep. In the room was the doctor
and the nurse from Bervie, he came over to her side, old Meldrum,Well
Chris lass, how do you feel? Fine to send for us in such a stour, and
here we coming tearing up to find you sleeping like a lamb! This is Mrs.
Ogilvie, you've heard of her.
Chris tried to speak, and managed, her body was a
furnace, but she managed to speak, she didn't get it clear and she tried
again. And Mrs. Ogilvie patted her and saidDon't
bother with that. Do you feel you're getting on fine?Dr.
Meldrum came back then,Well,
let's see;and Chris poised herself on the rim of a glistening cup of
pain while they looked at and felt at and straightened something alien
and white, it was her own body she remembered. Meldrum saidFine,
fine, it shouldn't be long, I'll wait below,and
went out and closed the door, he hated confinements. Mrs. Ogilvie sat
down and next minute jumped to her feet again,Don't
do that, Mrs. Tavendale, don't grip yourself up! Slacken and its easy,
wish it to come, there's a brave girl!
Chris tried: it was torment: the beast moved away from
her breasts, scrabbled and tore and returned again, it wasn't a beast,
red-hot pincers were riving her apart. Riven and riven she bit at her
lips, the blood on her tongue, she couldn't bite more, she heard herself
scream then, twice. And then there were feet on the stairs, the room
rose and fell, hands on her everywhere, holding her, tormenting her, she
cried out again, ringingly, deep, a cry that ebbed to a sigh, the cry
and the sigh with which young Ewan Tavendale came into the world in the
farm-house of Blawearie.
So quick as all that, she was lucky, folk said, bringing
a birth in a forenoon, just; it was twelve when Ewan was born. Some
folk, Mrs. Ogilvie told, had to thresh from dawn to dusk and through
another night to another day, and Chris lay and nodded and saidYes,
I know,and fell fast asleep, she didn't dream at all. And, waking,
she found herself washed and dried, a new nightgown put on her and Mrs.
Ogilvie knitting by the side of the bed, nothing else, oh! she couldn't
have dreamt and not known it. She whispered, scared,My
baby?and Mrs. Ogilvie
whisperedBeside you,
don't crush him,and
Chris turned round her head and saw then beside her a face as small as
though carved from an apple, near, perfect and small, with a fluff of
black hair and a blue tinge on long eyelids, and a mouth that was Ewan's
and a nose her own and she nearly cried outOh,
my baby!
So she lay and wondered, near cried again, and put out
her hand, it felt strong and quick, only heavy, and her fingers passed
up and along, under its swathings, a body as small and warm as a cat's,
with a heart that beat steady and assured. And the baby opened his eyes
and fluttered them at her and yawned and she saw a tongue like a little
red fish in the little red mouth; and the blue-shaded eyelids went down
again and young Ewan Tavendale slept.
Sweet to lie beside him in the hours that went by,
sleeping herself now and then and wakening to watch him, not ugly as
she'd thought he'd be, lovely and perfect. And then he moved and
whimpered, unrestful, and was picked from the bed in Mrs. Ogilvie's
hands, and fluttered his eyelids at her, Chris saw, and opened his mouth
and weeked like a kitten. And Mrs. Ogilvie saidHe's
hungry now,Chris found
him in her arms at last, and hugged him, just once, and held him to her
breast.
The blind little mouth came kissing and lapping, he
wailed his disappointment, his little hands clawing at her. Then his
lips found her nipple, it hurt and it didn't, it was as though he were
draining the life from her body, there was nothing better than to die
that way, he was hers close and closer than his father had been, closer
than again could any child be. And she wondered above him and kissed his
black hair, damp still from the travail of birth; and looked at the eyes
that stared so unwinkingly as the hungry lips clung to her breast. So at
last he was finished, then Ewan came up, he'd come while she slept
before and he bent and kissed her and she criedMind
the baby!and he saidBy
God, am I like to forget?And
he wiped his forehead, poor Ewan!
In a week Mrs. Ogilvie was gone and Chris felt so well
she was up and about, it was daft to lie wearied and feckless when she
felt so fine. So down to the kitchen and the shining of the October sun
she came, she and her baby, into the whisper and murmur of that war that
had so excited Chae Strachan.
For it was on, not a haver only, every soul that came up
to look at young Ewan began to speak of it sooner or later. Chae came
and looked at young Ewan and tickled his toes and saidAy,
man!And he told them
they'd brought out a fine bit bairn between them, every man might yet
have to fight for bairn and wife ere this war was over; and he said that
the Germans had broken loose, fair devils, and were raping women and
braining bairns all over Belgium, it was hell let loose. And Ewan saidWho'll
win, then?and Chae said
if the Germans did there'd be an end of both peace and progress forever,
there wouldn't be safety in the world again till the Prussians--and they
were a kind of German, with meikle spiked helmets, awful brutes, and the
very worst--were beaten back to the hell they came from. But Ewan just
yawned and saidOh,
to hell with them and their hell both, Chae! Are you going to the mart
the morn?
For he didn't care, Ewan; but the mart was as bad, nobody
spoke of anything but war, Munro of the Cuddiestoun was there, and
Mutch, they'd a fair drink in their bellies, both, and swore they'd
'list the morn were they younger, by God. That was just the drink
speaking, no doubt, but the very next day the Upperhill foreman, James
Leslie he was that had taken Ewan's place, went into Aberdeen and joined
in the Gordons, he was the first man to go from Kinraddie and was killed
fell early. But folk thought him fair daft, showing off and looking for
a holiday, just, there was no use coming to such stir as that when the
war would so soon be over. For the papers all said that it would, right
fierce they were,Man,
some of those editors are right rough creatures, God pity the Germans if
they'd their hands on them!And
folk shook their heads, and agreed that the newspaper billies were ill
to run counter.
But the Germans didn't care--maybe they didn't read the
papers, said Long Rob of the Mill; they just went on with their raping
of women and their gutting of bairns, till Chae Strachan came up to
Blawearie one night with a paper in his hand and a blaze on his face,
and he cried that he for one was off to enlist, old Sinclair could heed
to the Knapp and to Kirsty. And Ewan cried after him,You're
havering, man, you don't mean it!but
Chae cried backDamn't ay,
that I do!And sure as
death he did and went off, by Saturday a letter came to Peesie's Knapp
that told he had joined the North Highlanders and been sent to Perth.
So there was such speak and stir as Kinraddie hadn't
known for long, sugar was awful up in price and Chris got as much as she
could from the grocer and stored it away in the barn. Then Ewan heard
funny things about the sermon that the Reverend Gibbon had preached the
Sunday before, and though he couldn't bear with a kirk he broke his
habit and put on his best suit and went down to the service next
Sabbath.
There was a fell crowd there, more than Ewan had heard of
the last week's sermon, and the place was all on edge to hear what the
Reverend Gibbon would say. He looked bigger and more like a bull than
ever, Ewan thought, as he mounted the pulpit, there was nothing unusual
as he gave out the hymn and the prayer. But then he took a text, Ewan
couldn't mind which, about Babylon's corruptions, they'd been right
coarse there. And he said that God was sending the Germans for a curse
and a plague on the world because of its sins, it had grown wicked and
lustful, God's anger was loosed as in the days of Attila. How long it
would rage, to what deeps of pain their punishments would go, only God
and His Anger might know. But from the chastisement by blood and fire
the nations might rise anew, Scotland not the least in its ancient
health and humility, to tread again the path to grace.
And just as he got there, up rose old Sinclair of the
Netherhill, all the kirk watched him, and he put on his hat and he
turned his back and went step-stepping slow down the aisle, he wouldn't
listen to this brute defending the German tinks and some friend that he
called Attila. Hardly had he risen when Mutch rose too, syne Cuddiestoun,
and they too clapped on their hats; and Ellison half made to rise but
his wife pulled him down, he looked daft as a half-throttled turkey
then, Ella White wasn't to have him make himself a fool for any damned
war they waged. But the minister turned red and then white and he
stuttered when he saw folk leaving; and his sermon quietened down, he
finished off early and rattled off the blessing as though it was a
cursing. Outside in the kirkyard some young folk gathered to clout him
in the lug as he came from the kirk, but the elders were there and they
edged them away, and Mr. Gibbon threaded the throngs like a futret with
kittle, and made for the Manse, and padlocked the gate.
But Ewan didn't care one way or the other, as he told to
Chris. The minister might be right or be wrong with his Babylons and
whores and might slobber Attila every night of the week, Blawearie had
its crop all in and that was what mattered. And Chris saidYes,
what a blither about a war, isn't it, Ewan?and
tickled young Ewan as he lay on her lap. And he laughed and kicked and
his father sat down and looked at him, solemn, and said it was fair
wonderful,Did
you see him look up at me then, Chris quean?
So they were douce and safe and blithe in Blawearie
though Kinraddie was unco with Chae Strachan gone. Kirsty came up on a
visit and cried when she sat in the kitchen beside the crib, Chris made
her tea but she wouldn't take comfort. She said she knew well enough
Chae'd never come back, he was in such a rage with the Germans he'd just
run forward in his bit of the front and kill and kill till he'd fair
lost himself. Chris saidAnd
they're maybe not such bad folk as the papers make out,and
at that Kirsty Strachan jumped upSo,
you're another damned pro-German as well, are you? There's over-many of
your kind in Kinraddie.Chris
stared clean amazed, but out Kirsty Strachan went running, still crying,
and that was the last they saw of her in many a week, maybe she was
ashamed of her outburst.
Whether or notshewas,
there could be never a doubt about the Reverend Gibbon. For the next
Sabbath day, when another great crowd came down to the kirk to hear him
preach, they got all the patriotism they could wish, the minister said
that the Kaiser was the Antichrist, and that until this foul evil had
been swept from the earth there could be neither peace nor progress
again. And he gave out a hymn then,Onward, Christian Soldiersit
was, and his own great bull's voice led the singing, he had fair become
a patriot and it seemed likely he thought the Germans real bad. But Long
Rob of the Mill, when he heard the story, said it was a sight more
likely that he thought the chance of losing his kirk and collections a
damned sight worse than any German that was ever yet clecked.
For, and it grew a fair scandal all through the Howe, you
could hardly believe it, it was funny enough, Long Rob of the Mill
didn't hold with the war. He said it was a lot of damned nonsense, those
that wanted to fight, the M.P.s and bankers and editors and muckers,
should all be locked up in a pleiter of a park and made to gut each
other with graips: there'd be no great loss to the world and a fine bit
sight it would make for decent folk to look on at. But for folk with
sense to take part in the soss and yammer about King and country was
just plain hysteria; and as for Belgium invaded, it got what it needed,
what about the Congo and your Belgians there? Not that the Germans
weren't as bad, they were all tarred with the same black brush.
But, though folk weren't patriots as daft as Chae
Strachan, that didn't look when he was being laughed at, they knew right
well that Long Rob couldn't lie like that, the long, rangy childe,
without being pro-German, as the papers called it. For all the papers
were full of pro-Germans then, British folk that thought that the German
rascals were right; and in England folk went and smashed in their
windows, such a rage they were in with the pro-Germans for being so
coarse. There was little danger that they'd smash Rob's windows, there
were few that cared to tackle the childe except Chae Strachan that was
training in Perth.
So the whole stour might well have blown over, Rob was a
well-liked billy and you needn't heed his blithers, if the Reverend
Gibbon hadn't taken to the business and preached a sermon about tinks
and traitors and a lot he preached about a jade called Jael, fell
uncanny she'd been, right holy, though, and she'd killed a childe Sisera
that she couldn't thole, because he was coarse to the Jews. And the
Reverend Gibbon boomed out she was fine, a patriot and a light unto
Israel she'd been, and we in like manner must act the same, right here
in our midst were traitors that sided with the Antichrist, shame on
Kinraddie that it should be so!
Folk listened to the sermon and fair got excited, and
after dinner that Sabbath a horde of billies, some came from Kinraddie
though most did not, but Upperhill's new foreman was there, and an awful
patriot childe just like Gordon himself, they went down to the Mill, and
there was Long Rob sitting out by his door, smoking at his pipe and
reading in a book, coarse stite about God and God knows what. And the
Upper-hill foreman cried outHere's
the Kaiser's crony, let's duck the mucker!and
the lot made a run at Rob and got him gripped in their hands, Rob
thought it some joke and he laughed at them, setting by his bit book.
But they soon let him know they were serious enough, they were clean
worked up about the sermon and Long Rob the Antichrist's friend, and
they started to haul Rob over to the mill-course then, where the water
was sparkling and raging from a good bit spate in the hills.
Syne at last Rob knew they meant what they said, folk
told that he gave a great cry that wasn't a curse and wasn't a shout, it
was both together; and as they dragged him he lifted his foot, real
coarse-like, and he kicked the foreman at the Upperhill right in the
tender parts then, and the foreman at the Upperhill he screamed like a
fell stuck pig; and God! folk laughed right well when they heard about
that. Well, the next thing that happened was that Rob got a hand free
then, and he took a childe near him, a meikle man from the Mains, a
clout in the ear that stretched him flat; and then Rob was free and he
ran, all the rest at his heels, for the house. But he could run right
well, could Rob and fair outdistanced the pack, and he leapt inside and
he barred the door.
So they threw some stones and rammed at the door with
their shoulders, half-shamed by then at the stour they were raising, and
maybe they knew they'd feel fools by Monday; and they might have gone
home in another minute if it hadn't been that the meikle Mains man, him
that Rob had couped on the ground with a clout in the ear, crawled up to
his feet and picked up a great stone; and crack! through the kitchen
window it went with a bang and a splinter inside!
Next minute the door flung open, they turned and looked
and there was Long Rob, a gun in his hand and his face fair grey with
rage. Some criedTake
care, man, now, put down that gun!but
they edged away back for all that. And Rob cried outSmash
in my window you would, then, would you, you scum?and
he swung the gun at the nearest billy and let drive at him. The pellets
sang past the billy's head and he'd had enough of the war, he turned and
ran like a rabbit; and the others scattered and ran as well, and Long
Rob ran after them, and his gun went bang! again and again, you could
hear it all over Kinraddie.
Folk ran to their doors, they thought the Germans had
landed and were looting the Mearns; Chris, who had run across the
Blawearie cornyard, shaded her eyes and looked over the country and at
last she saw them, the running figures, like beetles in the distance,
they fanned out and ran from the Mill as focus. And behind ran another
that stopped now and then, and a puff of smoke went up at each stopping,
and there came the bang of the gun. Mist was coming down and it blinded
the battlefield, and through it the attacking army ran in an awful rout,
Chris saw them vanish into its coming and Long Rob, still shooting, go
scudding in chase.
So that was the result of the Reverend Gibbon's sermon,
Kinraddie fair seethed with the news next day, all about the attack on
the Mill and how Rob had chased the childes that came up against him,
some could hardly sit down for a week after that, so full were their
backsides with pellets. And some said that Long Rob was a coarse tink
brute, if he was willing to fight like that at the Mill it was him that
should go out to France and fight; but others, though they weren't so
many, Chris and Ewan were among them, liked Long Rob and sided with him,
and said it was a damn poor show for Scotland if her patriots aye ran as
they had at the Mill. That had been the Sunday, but on Wednesday was
another happening, and God knows what mightn't have come ofitbut
for the interfering of the daftie Tony, him that bided at Cuddiestoun.
He'd been stitering along the Denburn road, had Tony,
when he rounded a bend and there, on the road outside the Mill, was the
Reverend Gibbon, his bicycle was lying in the stour and Long Rob had him
gripped by the collar, and if he wasn't in danger of a bash in the face
appearances were sore deceptive. For Long Rob had seen the minister come
riding in the distance and knew his black coat and stopped the Mill and
ran down to the road to ask what the hell the Reverend had meant by
saying he was friends with the Antichrist. And the Reverend Gibbon
turned red with rage and criedStand
out of my way there, Rob,and
Rob criedStand still you
first, my man, for we've a bit bone to pick!and
as the minister tried to ride him down Rob caught the handles and
twisted them sore, and off the minister came, like a sack of corn, right
flump in Rob's hands.
And Rob gave him a bit shake and askedWho's
pro-German?and the
minister swore himself blue and made at Rob, and Rob shook him like a
futret a rabbit, and syne stood back and looked close at his face, and
made up his mind that he'd smash in the minister's bit nose right then,
he'd seen that kind of thing done before and it fair sossed up a pretty
man, you just struck and struck till the bone gave way.
So Rob was just starting to mash up the minister childe
when round the bend with a funny bit screech came the daftie Tony, he
scraiched like a hen with a seed in its throat and ran and caught at
Rob's arm.He's only a
half-witted cleric, Rob, you'll dirty your hands on him,he
cried, and both Rob and minister, sore astounded, stopped from their
fighting and stared at the creature, the impudence of him with his wee
red beard, and him only a daftie, like. But he nodded to the ministerGet
while the going's good and your hide's still intact,he
said, and if you'd believe it the minister louped on his bicycle without
a word, and off he rode; and Long Rob turned and asked the daftie where
he'd hidden his sense all the time they'd known him, but Tony stood
still like a stock of rags, a daft-like look on his face. And when Rob
spoke to him again he just smiled like a gowk, and went shuffling away
through the stour.
Some said that if all things were true that wouldn't be a
lie, but Rob swore to it, he wasn't boasting what he'd done to the
minister, he said, he was just so astonished at Tony he'd to tell them
the story to make Tony's part plain. Cuddiestoun swore 'twas a lie from
beginning to end, the thing you'd expect from a darned pro-German, like;
but he didn't say that to Long Rob, he was over coarse in the feet,
Munro, to run as fleet as the other billies had when Rob got in action.
But he stopped his trade with Long Rob and he carted his corn for
crushing and bruising over to the mill at Mondynes, syne Mutch of Bridge
End did the same. Ah well, they might do that if they liked, folk as a
rule were hardly so daft as leave the best miller for miles around just
because of his saying that all the Germans could hardly be tinks. Maybe,
you know, there was something in what the man said, coarse devils though
most of the Germans were.
But Chris didn't care, sitting there at Blawearie with
young Ewan at her breast, her man beside her, Blawearie theirs and the
grain a fine price, forbye that the stirks sold well in the marts. Maybe
there was war and bloodshed and that was awful, but far off also, you'd
hear it like the North Sea cry in a morning, a crying and a thunder that
became unending as the weeks went by, part of life's plan, fringing the
horizon of your days with its pelt and uproar. So the new year came in
and Chris watched young Ewan change and grow there at her breast, he was
quick of temper like his father, good like his mother, she told Ewan;
and Ewan laughedGod,
maybe you're right! You could hardly be wrong in a thing after bringing
a bairn like that in the world.And
she laughed at himBut you
helped a little!and he
blushed as red as he always did, they seemed daft as ever in their love
as the days wore on.
It was still as strange and as kind to lie with him, live
with him, watch the sweat on his forehead when he came from tramping a
day in the parks at the heels of his horses; still miracle to hear
beside her his soundless breathing in the dark of the night when their
pleasure was past and he slept so soon. But she didn't herself, those
nights as the Winter wore to March, into Spring: she'd lie and listen to
that hushed breathing of his one side of her, the boy's quicker breath
in his cradle out by--content, content, what more could she have or want
than the two of them, body and blood and breath? And morning would bring
her out of her bed to tend young Ewan and make the breakfast and clean
out the byre and the stable singing: she worked never knowing she tired
and Long Rob of the Mill came on her one morning as she cleaned the
manure from the stable and he criedThe
Spring of life, eh, Chris quean. Sing it and cherish it 'twill never
come again!
Different from the old Rob he looked, she thought, but
thought that carelessly, hurried to be in to young Ewan. But she stopped
and watched him swing down the rigs to Ewan by the side of his horses,
Ewan with his horses halted on the side of the brae and the breath of
them rising up like a steam. And she heard Ewan callAy,
man, Rob,and Rob callAy,
man, Ewan,and they
called the truth, they seemed fine men both against the horizon of
Spring, their feet deep laired in the wet clay ground, brown and great,
with their feet on the earth and the sky that waited behind. And Chris
looked at them over-long, they glimmered to her eyes as though they had
ceased to be there, mirages of men dreamt by a land grown desolate
against its changing sky. And the Chris that had ruled those other two
selves of herself, content, unquestioning these many months now, shook
her head and called herself daft.
That year's harvest fell sharp away, but the price of
corn made up for it, other prices might rise but farming folk did well.
So it went in the winter and into the next year too, Ewan took in a
drove of Irish steers to eat up the lush green grass of
nineteen-sixteen. They grew fat and round in the shortest while, Chris
proud to see them, so many beasts had Blawearie. You'd hardly believe
'twas here father had chaved and fought for a living the way he did; but
that was before the War.
For it still went on, rumbling its rumours like the
thunder of summer beyond the hills. But nobody knew now when it would
finish, not even Chae Strachan come home, a soldier all the way from the
front, as they called it; in the orra-looking khaki he came, with two
stripes sewn on his arm, he said they had made him a corporal. He came
up to Blawearie the night he got home and scraped his feet on the
scraper outside and came dandering into the kitchen as aye he had done,
not knocking but crying through the door,Ay,
folk, are you in?
So there was Chae, Chris gave a loud gasp to see him,
Chae himself, so altered you'd hardly believe it, Chae himself, thin,
his fine eyes queered and strained somehow. Even his laugh seemed
different, hearty as it was, and he criedGod,
Chris, I'm not a ghost yet!and
syne Chris and Ewan were shaking his hands and sitting him down and
pouring him a dram and another after that. And young Ewan came running
to see and criedsoldier!and
Chae caught him and swung him up from the floor and criedChris's
bairn--God, it can't be, I mind the day he was born, just yesterday it
was!
Young Ewan took little to strangers, most, not frightened
but keep-your-distance he was, but he made no try to keep distant from
Chae, he sat on his knee as Chris spread them supper and Chae spoke up
about things in the War, it wasn't so bad if it wasn't the lice. He said
they were awful, but Chris needn't be feared, he'd been made to stand
out in the close by Kirsty and strip off everything he had on, and fling
the clothes in a tub and syne get into another himself. So he was fell
clean, and God! he found it a change not trying to reach up his
shoulders to get at some devil fair sucking and sucking the life from
his skin.
And he gave a great laugh when he told them that, his old
laugh queerly crippled it was. And Ewan asked what he thought of the
Germans, were they truly coarse? And Chae said he was damned if he knew,
he'd hardly seen one alive, though a body or so you saw now and then,
gey green andfeuch!
there's a supper on the table!Well,
out there you hardly did fighting at all, you just lay about in those
damned bit trenches and had a keek at the soil they were made of. And
man, it was funny land, clay and a kind of black marl, but the French
were no good as farmers at all, they just pleitered and pottered in
little bit parks that you'd hardly use as a hanky to wipe your neb. Chae
didn't like the French at all, he said they were damned poor folk you'd
to fight for, them, meaner than dirt and not half so sweet.
And Ewan listened and saidSo
you don't think that I should join up, Chae?and
Chris stared at him, Chae stared at him, young Ewan stared, and they all
three stared till Chae snortedThere
are fools enough in the fighting as it is.Chris
felt something holding her throat, she'd to cough and cough, trying to
speak, and couldn't, and Ewan looked at her shamed-like and blushed and
saidOch,
I was asking, only.
Chae went round all Kinraddie on his leave that time and
found changes enough to open his eyes, maybe he was fell wearied with
the front, folk thought, there was nothing on there but their pleitering
and fighting. And the first change he saw the first morning, did Chae,
lying down on his bed for the pleasure of it and Kirsty at the making of
his breakfast. And Chae sat up in his bed to reach for his pipe when he
looked from the window and he gave a great roar; and he louped from his
bed in his sark so that Kirsty came running and cryingWhat
is't? Is't a wound?
But she found Chae standing by the window then, cursing
himself black in the face he was, and he asked how long hadthisbeen
going? So Mistress Strachan looked out the way he looked and she saw it
was only the long bit wood that ran by the Peesie's Knapp that vexed
him, it was nearly down the whole stretch of it, now. It made a gey
difference to the look-out faith! but fine for Kinraddie the woodmen had
been, they'd lodged at the Knapp and paid high for their board. But Chae
cried outTo hell with
their board, the bastards, they're ruining my land, do you hear!And
he pulled on his trousers and boots and would fair have run over the
park and been at them; but Kirsty caught at his sark and held him back
and criedHave
you fair gone mad with the killing of Germans?
And he asked her hadn't she got eyes in her head, the
fool, not telling him before that the wood was cut? It would lay the
whole Knapp open to the north-east now, and was fair the end of a living
here. And Mistress Strachan answered up that she wasn't a fool, and
they'd be no worse than the other folk, would they? all the woods in
Kinraddie were due to come down. Chae shoutedWhat,
others?and went out to
look; and when he came back he didn't shout at all, he said he'd often
minded of them out there in France, the woods, so bonny they were, and
thick and grave, fine shelter and lithe for the cattle. Nor more than
that would he say, it seemed then to Kirsty that he quietened down, and
was quiet and queer all his leave, it was daft to let a bit wood go vex
him like that.
But the last night of his leave he climbed to Blawearie
and he said there was nothing but the woods and their fate that could
draw his eyes. For over by the Mains he'd come on the woodmen, teams and
teams of them hard at work on the long bit forest that ran up the high
brae, sparing nothing they were but the yews of the Manse. And up above
Upperhill they had cut down the larch, and the wood was down that lay
back of old Pooty's.
Folk had told him the trustees had sold it well, they got
awful high prices, the trustees did, it was wanted for aeroplanes and
such-like things. And over at the office he had found the factor and the
creature had peeked at Chae through his horn-rimmed glasses and said
that the Government would replant all the trees when the War was won.
And Chae had said that would console him a bloody lot, sure, if he'd the
chance of living two hundred years and seeing the woods grow up as some
shelter for beast and man: but he doubted he'd not last so long. Then
the factor said they must all do their bit at a sacrifice, and Chae
askedAnd
what sacrifices have you made, tell me, you scrawny wee mucker?
That wasn't fair to the factor, maybe, who was a decent
childe and not fit to fight, but Chae was so mad he hardly knew what he
said, and didn't much care. So when he fell in with old Ellison things
were no better. For Ellison'd grown fair big in the mind and the pouch,
folk said he was making silver like a dung-heap sourocks; and he'd
bought him a car and another piano; and he saidOw,
it's you, Charles lad! Are you home for long?and
he saidAnd I'll bet you
want back to the front line, eh?And
Chae said that he'd be wrong in the betting, faith ay!Did
you ever hear tell of a body of a woman that wanted a new bairn put back
in her womb?And Ellison
gowked and saidNo.And
Chae saidAnd neither have
I, you gowk-eyed gomeril,and
left him at that; and it was hardly a kindly remark, you would say.
But it seemed the same wherever he went in Kinraddie,
except at the Mill and his father-in-law's; every soul made money and
didn't care a damn though the War outlasted their lives; they didn't
care though the land was shaved of its timber till the whole bit place
would soon be a waste with the wind a-blow over heath and heather where
once the corn came green. At Cuddiestoun he came on the Munro pair, they
were rearing up hundreds of chickens that year and they sold them at
great bit prices to the Aberdeen hospitals. So busy they were with their
incubators they'd but hardly time to take notice of him, Mistress Munro
snapped and tweeted at him, still like a futret, and the creature
wrinkled its long thin neb:Ah
well, we'll have to get on with our work. Fine being you and a soldier,
Chae, with your holidays and all. But poor folk aye have to work.Munro
himself looked shamed at that and coloured all over his ugly face, poor
stock, but he'd hardly time to give Chae a dram, so anxious he was with
a new brood of hens.
So Chae left him fell quick, the place got on his stomach
and syne as he held through the parks he came bang on Tony, standing
right mid-way the turnip-field. And his eyes were fixed on the ground
and God! he might well have stood there for days by the look of him.
Chae cried out to him,Ay,
then, Tony mannot
expecting any reply, but Tony looked up and aside,Ah,
Chae, so the mills of God still grind?
And Chae went on, and he thought of that, a real
daft-like speak he thought it at first, but further up the brae as he
held by Upprums, he scratched his head, was the thing so daft? He
stopped and looked back, and there, far below, was the Tony childe,
standing, glued to the ground. And Chae shivered in a way, and went on.
So Chae wandered his round of Kinraddie, a strange place
and desolate with its crash of trees and its missing faces. And not that
alone, for the folk seemed different, into their bones the War had
eaten, they were money-mad or mad with grief for somebody killed or
somebody wounded--like Mistress Gordon of the Upperhill, all her pride
gone now because of the Jock she had loved and aye called John. But it
was Jock she called him when Chae sat with her in the parlour then, and
she told him the news of her blinded son in the hospital in England.
He wouldn't ever see again, it wasn't just a nervous
trouble or anything like that, he'd drawn back the bandages when she
went to see him and shown her the great red holes in his head; and syne
he'd laughed at her, demented like, and cried:What
think you of your son now, old wife?--the son you wanted to make a name
for you with his bravery in Kinraddie? Be proud, be proud, I'll be home
right soon to crawl round the park and I'll show these holes to every
bitch in the Mearns that's looking for a hero.He'd
fair screamed the words at his mother and a nurse had come running and
soothed him down, she said he didn't know what he said, but Mistress
Gordon had never a doubt about that. And she told Chae about it and wept
uncovered, her braveness and her Englishness all fair gone; and when
Gordon came into the room he looked different too, shrivelled up he was,
he'd taken to drink, folk said.
So Chae went out across the parks to the Bridge End then
and half-wished that he'd missed the Upperhill. But across the
nethermost park below the larch wood he ran into young Maggie Jean, her
that Andy the daftie had near mischieved, grown a gey lass, and he
hardly knew her. But she knew him fine and smiled at him, blithe and
open.It's Chae Strachan!
You look fine as a soldier, Chae! And please can I have a button?So
he cut off a button from his tunic for her and they smiled at each
other, and he went out across the fields with a lighter heart then, she
was sweet as a sprig of Blawearie 'suckle.
Bridge End he found with Alec away, he'd gone selling
sheep in Stonehaven. But Mistress Mutch was there and she sat and smoked
at a cigarette and told him that Alec was still a fell patriot, he'd
enrolled in the volunteers of Glenbervie and every other night went down
to Drumlithie for drill, a sight for sore eyes, the gowks, prancing
about like dogs with diarrhœa, that's what they minded her of.
And she asked Chae when the War was to end, and Chae saidGod
only knowsand she askedAnd
you still believe in Him?And
Chae was real shocked, a man might have doubts and his disbelief, you
expected a woman to be different, they needed more support in the world.
But now that he thought of God for himself he just couldn't say, there
was more of his Enemy over in France, that minded him now he must give
the Reverend Gibbon a look up at the Manse. But Mistress Mutch saidHaven't
you heard, then? Mr. Gibbon's gone, he's a Colonel-chaplain in Edinburgh
now, or something like that; and he wears a right brave uniform with a
black hanky across the neck of it. His father's come down to take his
place, an old bit stock that drinks German blood by the gill with his
porridge, by the way he preaches.
At Pooty's Chae knocked and knocked and got feint the
answer. And folk were to tell him that wasn't surprising, old Pooty had
taken to locking himself in nowadays, he got queerer and queerer, he
said every night he heard men tramping the roads in the dark, chill
hours, and they crept off the roads and slithered and slipped by the
hedges and fields, and he knew who they were, they were Germans, the
German dead from out of the earth that had come to work ill on Scotland.
And even in the daytime if you but looked quick, right sharp and sudden
between the bending of a bough or the bar of a gate, you'd see a white
German face, distorted still in the last red pain, haunting the Scottish
fields. And that was queer fancying well you might say.
But Chae knew nothing of the business, he near knocked in
the door of the little house ere he gave it up and went ben the road to
Long Rob's. And Rob saw him coming and turned off the Mill and ran to
meet him, and they sat and argued the rest of the day, Rob brought out
his bottle and they had a bit dram; and then Rob made them their supper
and they'd another long dram, and they argued far to the wee, small
hours. And Chae swore that he still believed the War would bring a good
thing to the world, it would end the armies and fighting forever, the
day of socialism at last would dawn, the common folk had seen what their
guns could do and right soon they'd use them when once they came back.
And Rob saidHavers,
havers. The common folk when they aren't sheep are swine, Chae man;
you're an exception, being a goat.
Well, it was fine enough that long arguing with Rob, but
out in the dark by the side of Chae as they walked along the road
together Rob criedOh man,
I'd go back with you the morn if only--and the words fair seemed to
stick in his throat. And Chae askedIf
only, what, man?and Rob saidIf
only I wanted to be easy--easy and a liar. But I've never gone that gait
yet and I' m damned if I'll begin for any bit war!
And what he meant by that Chae didn't know, he left him
then and held over the moor land towards the Knapp under the rising
moon. And it was there that a strange thing happened to him, maybe he'd
drunk over much of Long Rob's whisky, though his head was steady enough
as a rule for thrice the amount he'd drunk.
Ah well, the thing was this, that as he went over an open
space of the vanished Standing Stones he saw right in front of him a
halted cart; and a man had got out of the cart and knelt by the axle and
looked at it. And Chae thought it some carter billy from the Netherhill
taking the near cut through the moor, and steered out to go by and criedGood
night, then.But there
wasn't an answer, so he looked again, and no cart was there, the shingly
stones shone white and deserted under the light of the moon, the peewits
were crying away in the distance. And Chae's hackles fair stood up on
end, for it came on him that it was no cart of the countryside he had
seen, it was a thing of light wood or basket-work, battered and bent,
low behind, with a pole and two ponies yoked to it; and the childe that
knelt by the axle had been in strange gear, hardly clad at all, and
something had flashed on his head, like a helmet maybe.
And Chae stood and swore, his blood running cold, and
near jumping from his skin when a pheasant started under his feet with a
screech and a whirr and shot away into the dimness. And maybe it was one
of the men of old time that he saw there, a Calgacus' man from the
Graupius battle when they fought the Romans up from the south; or maybe
it had only been the power of Long Rob's Glenlivet.
So that was Chae's round of the countryside, in a blink
his leave was gone and Chae had gone with it, folk said he was still the
same old Chae, he blithered still about Rich and Poor, you'd have
thought the Army would have taught him better. But Chris stuck up for
him, Chae was fine, not that she herself cared for the Rich and Poor,
she was neither one nor the other herself. That year the crops came so
thick Ewan said they must hire some help, and that they did, an oldist
stock from Bervie he was, gey handless at first, John Brigson his name.
But he soon got into the set of Blawearie, sleeping in the room that had
once been Chris's, and making rare friends with young Ewan, it was lucky
they had him. And the harvest came fine and Chris thought it near time
that another baby should come to Blawearie. They'd been careful as
blithe in the thing so far, but now it was different. Ewan'd love to
have another.
And one night went on and then another and she whispered
to herselfIn the Spring
I'll tell him;and the
New Year went by; and then news came up to Blawearie in a wave of gossip
from all over the Howe. For the Parliament had passed the Conscription
Act that meant you'd to go out and fight whatever you said, they'd shoot
you down if you didn't. And sure as death Ewan soon had his papers sent
to him, he'd to go up to Aberdeen and be there examined, he'd been
excused before as a farmer childe. Long Rob got his papers on the very
same day and he laughed and saidFine,
I'll like a bit jaunt.
And into Aberdeen they all went, a fair crowd of them
then, all in one carriage; and the ploughmen all swore that they didn't
care a button were they taken or not; and Ewan knew right well that they
wouldn't take him, they didn't take folk that farmed their own land; and
Long Rob said nothing, just sat and smoked. So they came to Aberdeen and
went to the place and sat in a long, bare room. And a soldier stood near
the door of the room and cried out their names one after the other; and
Long Rob sat still and smoked his pipe. So they finished at last with
the ploughmen childes, the whole jing-bang were passed as soldiers. And
they called Long Rob, but he just sat still and smoked his pipe, he
wouldn't stir out of his jacket, even. So there was a great bit stir at
that, they danced around him and swore at him, but he blew his smoke up
in their faces, calm like a man unvexed by midges met on a summer day.
They gave up the try, they did nothing to him then, he
came back to the Howe and sat down at the Mill. But next he was called
to appear at Stonehaven, the Exemption Board sat there for the cases;
and Rob rode down on his bicycle, smoking his pipe. So they called out
his name and in he went and the Chairman, a wee grocer man that worked
night and day to send other folk out to fight the Germans, he asked Long
Rob how he liked the idea that folk called him a coward? And Long Rob
saidFine, man, fine. I'd
rather any day be a coward than a corpse.And
they told him he couldn't have exemption and Long Rob lit up his pipe
and said that was sad.
Home to the Mill he came again, and that night folk saw
him on the round of his parks, standing and smoking and looking at his
land and sky, the long rangy childe. Ewan went by fell late that evening
and saw him and criedAy,
Rob!but the miller said
never a word, Ewan went home to Blawearie vexed about that. But Chris
said it was just that Long Rob was thinking of the morn, he'd been
ordered to report to the Aberdeen barracks.
And the next day passed and all Kinraddie watched from
its steadings the ingoings and outgoings of Rob at the Mill; and damn
the move all the day long did he make to set out as they'd ordered him.
The next day came, the policeman came with it, he rode up to the Mill on
his bicycle and bided at the Mill a good two hours and syne rode out
again. And folk told later that he'd spent all that time arguing and
prigging at Rob to set out. But Rob saidIf
you want me, carry me!and
faith! the policeman couldn't very well do that, angered though he was,
it would look fair daft wheeling Rob along the roads on his bicycle
tail.
So the policeman went off to Stonehaven and out from it
late in the evening there drove a gig, the policeman again, and two
home-time soldiers, it needed all three to take Rob of the Mill away to
the war. He wouldn't move even then, though he made no struggle, he just
sat still and smoked at his pipe, and they'd to carry him out and put
him in the gig. And off they drove, that was how Long Rob went off to
the War, and what happened to him next there rose this rumour and that,
some said he was in jail, some said he'd given in, some said he'd
escaped and was hiding in the hills: but nobody knew for sure.
And to Chris it seemed then, Chae gone, Rob gone, that
their best friends were out of Kinraddie now, friends close and fine,
but they had themselves, Ewan and her and young Ewan. And she held close
to them both, working for them, tending them, seeing young Ewan grow
straight and strong, with that slim white body of his, like his father's
just; and it made a strange, sweet dizziness go singing in her heart as
she bathed him, he stood so strong and white, she would mind that agony
that had been hers at the birth of this body, it had been worth it and
more. And now she wanted another bairn, Spring was coming, fast and
fast, the land smelt of it, the caller sea winds came fresh with the
tang that only in Spring they brought, it was nineteen-seventeen. And
Chris said in her heart that in April their baby would be conceived.
So she planned and went singing those days about the
kitchen of Blawearie toun, busy with this plot, she planned fresh linen
and fresh clothes for herself, she grew young and wayward as before she
married, and she looked at Ewan with secret eyes. And old John Brigson
would cryFaith,
mistress, you're light of heart!
But Ewan said nothing, strange enough that. She knew then
that something troubled him, maybe he was ill and would say nothing
about it, sitting so silent at meat and after, it grew worse as the days
went on. And when he looked at her no longer was the old look there, but
a blank, dark one, and he'd turn his face from her slowly. She was vexed
and then frightened and out in the close one morning, over the stillness
of the hen's chirawk, she heard his voice raised in cursing at Brigson,
it was shameful for him to do that and not like Ewan at all to do it.
Then he came back from the steading with quick stepping feet, as he
passed through the kitchen Chris criedWhat's
wrong?He muttered backNothing,and
went up the stairs, and he took no notice of young Ewan that ran after
him, bairn-like, to show him some picture in a book he had.
Chris heard him rummage in their room, and then he came
down, he was fully dressed, his dark face heavy and stranger than ever,
Chris stared at himWhere
are you going?and he
snappedTo Aberdeen, if
you'd like to know,and
off he went. He had never spoken to her like that--he was EWAN, hers! .
. . She stood at the window, dazed, looking after him, so strange she
must then have looked that little Ewan ran to her,Mother,
mother!and she picked
him up and soothed him and the two of them stood and watched Ewan
Tavendale out of sight on the bright spring road.
It seemed to Chris he had hated her that minute when he
looked at her in the kitchen, she went through the day with a twist of
sickness about her heart. Told Brigson, shamed for her man, she said
that Ewan had been worried with his business and that, he'd been out of
his temper that morning and had gone to Aberdeen for the day. And John
Brigson said cheerilyNever
heed, mistress. He'll be right as rain when he's back the night,and
he helped her wash up the supper things, and they had a fine long talk.
Syne off he went to tend to the beasts, and Chris grew anxious, looking
at the clock, till she minded that there was a later train still, the
ten o'clock train. So she bedded young Ewan and milked the kye, and came
back to the kitchen, and waited. John Brigson had gone to his bed,
Blawearie was quiet, she went out and walked down to the road to meet
Ewan in the fresh-fallen dew of the night--so young the year and so
sweet, she'd make it this night, the night with Ewan that she'd planned!
By Peesie's Knapp a snipe was sounding, she stood and
listened to the bird, and saw in the starlight the skeleton timbers of
the great wood that once fronted the north wind there. A hare scuttled
over the road, the ditches were running and trilling, hidden, filled
with the waters of Spring, she smelt the turned grass of the ploughlands
and shivered in the blow of the wind, Ewan was long on the road. At the
turnpike bend she stopped and listened for the sound of his feet, and
minded a thing out of childhood then, if you put your ear to the ground
you'd hear far off steps long ere you'd hear them when standing and
upright. And she laughed to herself, remembering that, and knelt on the
ground, agile and fleet, as the Guthries were, and put close her ear to
the road, it was cold and crumbly with little stones. She heard a flock
of little sounds going home to their buchts, far and near, each sound
went home, but never the sound of a footstep.
And then, Stonehaven way, a great car came flashing down
through the night, its headlights leaping from brae to brae, Chris stood
back and aside and she saw it go by, there were soldiers in it, one bent
on the wheel, she saw the floating ends of his Glengarry bonnet, the car
whirled past and was gone in the night. She stared after it, dazed and
dreaming, and shivered again. Ewan must have held over the hills and was
already at Blawearie, it was daft to be here, he'd be anxious about her
and go out seekingher!
So she ran back to Blawearie and she got there panting.
But her heart was light, she'd play a trick on Ewan, creep in on him
quiet as quiet, come up behind him sudden in the kitchen and make him
jump. And she padded softly across the close to the kitchen door and
looked in, and the lamp stood lit on the table, and the place was quiet
in its glow. She went up the stairs to their room, there was no sign of
Ewan, young Ewan lay sleeping with his face in the pillow, she righted
him away from that and went down to the kitchen again. She sat in a
chair there, waiting, and her heart froze and froze with the fears that
came up in it, she saw Ewan run over by a car in the streets, and why
hadn't they sent her a telegram?
But maybe she was wrong, maybe he missed the last train
and taken one out to Stonehaven instead and was tramping from there in
the darkness now. She piled new logs on the fire and sat and waited, and
the night went on, she fell fast asleep and waking found the lamp gone
out, in the sky between bar and blind was a sharp, dead whiteness like
the hand of a corpse. And as she stretched herself, chilled and queer,
up in John Brigson's room the alarum clock went. It was half-past five,
the night had gone, and still Ewan had not come back.
Nor came he back that day, nor many a day beyond that.
For the postman at noon brought Chris a letter, it was from Ewan and she
sat in the kitchen and read it, and didn't understand, and her lip hurt,
and she put up the back of her hand to wipe it and looked at the hand
and saw blood on it. Young Ewan came playing about her, he took the
letter out of her hand and ran off with it, screaming with laughter in
his young, shrill voice, she sat and did not look after him and he came
back and laughed in her face, surprised that she did not play. And she
took him in her arms and asked for the letter again, and again she tried
to read it. And what Ewan wrote was he'd grown sick of it all, folk
laughing and sneering at him for a coward, Mutch and Munro aye girding
at him. He was off to the War, he had joined the North Highlanders that
day, he would let her know where they sent him, she wasn't to worry; andI
am yours truly Ewan.
When John Brigson came in at dinner-time he found Chris
looking white as a ghost, but she wasn't dazed any longer, it just
couldn't be helped, Ewan was gone but maybe the war would be over before
he had finished with his training. And John Brigson saidOf
course it will, I see the Germans are retreating on all the fronts,
they're fair scared white, they say, when our men take to the bayonet.Little
Ewan wanted to know what a bayonet was and why the Germans were scared
of them, and John Brigson told him and Chris was sick, she'd to run out
to be sick, for if you've ever gutted a rabbit or a hen you can guess
what is inside a man, and she'd seen a bayonet going into Ewan there.
And John Brigson was awful sorry, he said he hadn't thought, and she
wasn't to worry, Ewan would be fine.
Oh, but that Spring was long! Out in the parks in the
day-time she'd go to help John Brigson and ease her weariness, she took
little Ewan with her then and a plaid to wrap him in for sleep, under
the lithe of a hedge or a whin, when he grew over-tired. And the fields
were a comfort, the crumble of the fine earth under your feet, swinging
a graip as you walked, breaking dung, the larks above, the horses
plodding by with snorting breath, old Brigson a-bend above the shafts.
He made fair poor drills, they were better than none, and he aye was
pleasant and canty, a fine old stock, he did lots of the things that
Ewan had done and asked no more pay for the doing of them. That was as
well, he wouldn't have got it, the weather was bitter, corn spoiled in
the planting.
Early in the year, about May that was, the rain came down
and it seemed it never would end, there was nothing to be done out of
doors, the rain came down from the north-east across Kinraddie and Chris
wasn't the only one that noted its difference from other years. In
Peesie's Knapp there was Mistress Strachan vexing herself in trying to
make out the change; and then she minded what Chae had said would happen
when the woods came down, once the place had been sheltered and lithe,
it poised now upon the brae in whatever storm might come. The woodmen
had all finished by then, they'd left a country that looked as though it
had been shelled by a German army. Looking out on those storms that May
Chris could hardly believe that this was the place she and Will had
watched from the window that first morning they came to Blawearie.
And then the very next day as she made the butter, young
Ewan was up the stairs with his blocks and books, John Brigson had gone
to Mondynes with a load of corn, Chris heard a step in the close,
somebody running in a hurry from the rain. Then the door burst open and
a soldier came in, panting, in the queerest uniform, a hat with gold
lacing and red breeches and leggings, Chris stared at the hat and then
at the face. And the soldier criedOh,
Chris, I believe you don't know me!and
she cried then,Will!and
her arms went round him, they cuddled one the other like children, Chris
crying, Will near to crying himself, patting her shoulder and sayingOh,
Chris!
Then she pushed him away and looked at him and they
cuddled each other again and Will danced her all round the kitchen, and
little Ewan up the stairs heard the stir and came tearing down and when
he saw a strange man holding his mother in his arms he made at Will and
whacked his legs and cried,Away,
man!Will criedGood
God, what's this you've got, Chris?and
swung Ewan high and stared in his face and shook his headYou're
a fine lad, ay, but you're over much of your father in you ever to be as
bonny as your mother!
That wasn't true but fine to hear, Chris could hardly get
any work done or a meal made ready, so many the things they'd to take
through hand, Will sat and smoked and every now and then they'd look one
at the other and Will would give a great laughOh
Chris, mind this . . . mind that. . .!and
his laughter had tears in it, they were daft, the pair of them. And when
old John Brigson came home, they heard the noise of the wheels in the
close and Will went out to lend him a hand, the old stock jumped off the
cart and made for a fork that was lying to hand, he thought Will a
German in that strange bit uniform. But he laughed right heartily when
Will said who he was, and the two of them came in for dinner and Will
sat at the table's head, in Ewan's place. And as he ate he told them how
he came in the uniform, and all the chances and wanderings that were his
and Mollie's when they went from Scotland.
And faith! he'd had more than enough of both, for in
Argentine, as he'd told Chris already by letter, he'd left his first
work after a while he and Mollie had both learned up the Spanish, and he
took a job with a Frenchman there, an awful fine stock. He liked Will
well and Will liked him, and he gave Will half of his house to bide in,
it was a great ranch out in the parks of that meikle country. So there
they had lived and were happy and blithe till the Frenchman had to go to
the War. Will had thought of going himself more than once but the
Frenchman had told him he'd be a fair fool, he might well be glad there
wasn't British conscription; besides, some body or other had to look to
the ranch.
But in less than two years the Frenchman came back, sore
wounded he'd been, and soon as he came Will told him it washisturn
now, he'd see some of this War for himself. And the Frenchman told him
he was fair a fool, but he'd get him a job with the French. So he did
after cables and cables to Paris, and Will said good-bye to Mollie and
the Frenchman and the Frenchman's wife, and sailed from Buenos Ayres to
Cherbourg; and in Paris they knew all about him, he found himself listed
as a sergeant-major in the French Foreign Legion, an interpreter he was,
for he knew three languages fine. Then they'd given him a fortnight's
leave and here he was.
And when he was alone with Chris that evening and she
told him about Ewan down training in Lanark, he said Ewan was either
soft or daft or both.Why
did you marry the dour devil, Chris? Did he make you or were you going
to have a bairn?And
Chris didn't feel affronted, it was Will that asked, he'd treat her just
the same if she owned up to a fatherless bairn once a year, or twice, if
it came to that. So she shook her head,It
was just because he was to me as Mollie to you,and
Will nodded to that,Ah,
well, we can't help when it gets that way. Mind when you wanted to know
. . .?
And they stood and laughed in the evening, remembering
that, and they walked arm in arm up and down the road and Chris forgot
all her worries remembering the days when she and Will were bairns
together, and the dourness and the loveliness then, and Will askedDo
you mind when we slept together--that last time we did it when the old
man had near killed me up in the barn?And
his face grew dark, he still couldn't forgive, he said that folk who
ill-treated their children deserved to be shot, father had tormented and
spoiled him out of sheer cruelty when he was young. But Chris said
nothing to that, remembering the day of father's funeral and how she had
wept by his grave in Kinraddie kirkyard.
But she knew she could never tell Will of that, he'd
never understand, and they spoke of other things, Will of the Argentine
and the life out there, and the smell of the sun and the warm weather
and the fruit and flowers and flame of life below the Southern Cross.
Chris saidBut you'll come back, you and Mollie, to bide in Scotland
again?and Will laughed,
he seemed still a mere lad in spite of his foreign French uniform,Havers,
who'd want to come back to this country? It's dead or it's dying--and a
damned good job!
And, daftly, Chris felt a sudden thrust of anger through
her heart at that; and then she looked round Kinraddie in the evening
light, seeing it so quiet and secure and still, thinking of the seeds
that pushed up their shoots from a thousand earthy mouths. Daft of Will
to say that: Scotland lived, she could never die, the land would outlast
them all, their wars and their Argentines, and the winds come sailing
over the Grampians still with their storms and rain and the dew that
ripened the crops--long and long after all their little vexings in the
evening light were dead and done. And her thoughts went back to the
kirkyard, she asked Will would he like to come to the kirk next day, she
hadn't been there herself for a year.
He looked surprised and then laughedYou're
not getting religious, are you?as
though she had taken to drink. And Chris saidNo,and
then thought about that, time to think for once in the pother of the
days with Blawearie so quiet above them, young Ewan and old Brigson
asleep. And she saidI
don't believe they were ever religious, the Scots folk. Will--not really
religious like Irish or French or all the rest in the history books.
They've never BELIEVED. It's just been a place to collect and argue, the
kirk, and criticise God.And
Will yawned, he said maybe, he didn't care one way or the other himself,
Mollie in the Argentine had taken up with the Catholics, and faith! she
was welcome if she got any fun.
So next day they set out for the kirk, the weather had
cleared, blowing wet and sunny in a blink, there were teeth of rainbows
out over Kinraddie, Chris said it was Will's uniform that messed up the
sky. But she was proud of him for all that, how folk stared as the two
of them went down the aisle! Chris was in her blue, with her new short
skirt and long boots, and Will inhisblue
and red trousers and leggings, and his jacket with the gold lace on it
and the high collar and the soft fine hat with the shiny peak. Old
Gibbon, him that preached for his son, near fell down the stairs of the
pulpit at sight of Will. But he recovered fell soon and preached them
one of the sermons that had made such stir throughout the Howe a year or
so back, he told how the German beasts now boiled the corpses of their
own dead men and fed the leavings to pigs. And he ground his teeth at
the Germans, they were so coarse; and he said that GUD would assuredly
smite them.
But folk had grown sick of him and his ragings, there was
only a small attendance to hear him and when they came out in the end
Will saidIt's good to be
out of that creature's stink!Syne
Ellison recognised Will and came swaggering over, redder than ever and
fatter than ever, and he criedIf
it ain't Will Guthrie! How are you?and
Will saidFine.Most
of the folk seemed pleased to see him, even Mutch and Munro, excepting
the Munro wife herself, she snapped,And
what would you be, then Will? They've a man at the picture palace in
Stonehaven that wears breeks just like that.And
Will saidFaith, Mistress
Munro, you're an authority on breeks. I hear you still wear them at the
Cuddiestoun.Folk
standing round gave a snicker at that, real fine for the futret, she'd
met her match.
And Will's leave went by like a shot, he was all over the
Howe in the first few days, up in Fordoun and down in Drumlithie, and
everywhere folk made much of him. But after that he bided nearly all the
time by Chris, he helped her or Brigson in old clothes of Ewan's she'd
raked out for him. He went shooting with father's gun fell often, up in
the moor it was blithe to hear him and his singing, young Ewan would go
wandering up to meet him. And when it came to the end and the last day,
young Ewan in bed and they sat by the fire and the June night came
softly down without, Chris didn't fear at all for Will, he was clean and
happy and quick, things went well with him. And next morning only young
Ewan cried at the parting, and off he went, it seemed then at Blawearie
that more than Will had gone out of their lives, it was a happy voice
that had sung for itself a chamber in their hearts those weeks he had
been with them.
But the hills flowed up and down, day after day, in their
dark and sunshine, and even those weeks were covered and laid past, and
Chris saw the harvest near, so near, a good harvest again in spite of
the weather; and still the War went on. Sometimes she'd a note or
postcard from Ewan in Lanark, sometimes she wouldn't hear for week on
week till she grew fair alarmed. But he just said it was that he never
could write, he didn't know how, they were awfully busy and she wasn't
to worry.
And then through Kinraddie a motor came driving one day,
it turned at the cross-roads and drove down by the Denburn. It stopped
at the Mill and folk ran to their doors and wondered who it could be,
the place was locked up and deserted-like. And when the motor stopped a
man got out, and another came after, slow, and he took the arm of the
first one, and they went step-stepping at snail's pace up to the
Mill-house and folk could see no more. But soon the story of it was
known all over the place, it was Long Rob himself come back, he had
never given in, they had put him in prison and ill-used him awful; but
he wouldn't give in whatever they did, he laughed in their faces,Fine,
man, fine.Last he went
on the hunger-strike, that was when you just starved to death to spite
them, and grew weaker and weaker. So they took him from prison to a
doctor childe and the doctor said it was useless to keep him, he'd never
be of use to his King and country.
So home at last he had come, folk told he was fairly a
wreck, he could hardly stand up and walk or make his own meat, God knows
how he ever got into his clothes. And Mutch and Munro wouldn't go near
him, neither would Gordon, they said that it served him right, the
coarse pro-German. And when Chris heard that there came a stinging pain
in her eyes and she called old John Brigson to yoke a cart and put corn
in it, as though taking it to Rob for bruising; and Chris got into the
cart as well and took young Ewan on her knee, and off they set from
Blawearie. Outside the Mill-house Chris cried on Brigson to stop, and
found the basket she'd laid on the bottom of the cart and ran through
the close to the kitchen door. It stood half-open, the place was dark
with hardly a glimmer from the fire, but she saw someone sitting, she
stopped and stared, an old man it seemed with a white, drawn face, his
hands fumbling at the lighting of a pipe.
She calledRob!and
he looked up and she saw his eyes, they were filled with awful things,
he criedChris! God is't
Chris Guthrie?She was
shaking his hand and his shoulder then, minding things about him, not
looking at him, minding the fine neighbour he'd been to her and Ewan in
the days they married. And she askedWhat
are you sitting here for! You should be in your bed,and
Rob saidI'm
damned if I should, I've had over much of bed. I was waiting about for
the grocer childe, but he didn't stop, though he knows I'm home. I
suppose he's still an ill-will at pro-Germans, like.
Chris told him never to mind the grocer, and she spoke to
him roughly, in case she should weep at the sight of him; and she told
him to go out and see John Brigson. Then, soon as he'd hirpled out with
his stick she looked round the place and started to clean it, and made a
fine fire and a meal with fresh eggs and butter, and oat-cakes and
scones and jam, she'd brought the lot from Blawearie. So when Rob came
in from his speak with Brigson, there it was waiting for him on the
table, he blinked and sat down and said in a whisper,You
shouldn't have done this, Chris quean.But
Chris said nothing, just sat him down at the table and sat there herself
and saw that he ate; and when young Ewan came in with old Brigson she
fed them as well; and syne Brigson set off for the farm at Auchenblae
where Rob's horse and sholtie were housed.
When he'd gone Chris set to work on the place and opened
the windows to the air and cleaned out the rooms and dragged off the
dirty linen from the bed and made it up in a bundle to take back with
her. Syne she baked oat-cakes for Rob and told him that each day he'd
get him a pail of milk from the Netherhill, till time came when he'd kye
of his own again, she'd arranged for that. And when John Brigson came
back in the evening with horse and sholtie Long Rob was fast asleep in
his chair, they didn't rouse him but spread him his supper, and set him
his breakfast as well, and left a lamp low-burning and clear beside him,
and a hot-water bottle in his bed. Syne they left him and rode them back
to Blawearie, all three were tired, young Ewan asleep in the arms of
Chris, dear to hold him so with his dark head sleeping against her
breast and old Brigson's shoulder seen as a dark quiet bulking against
the night.
Next morning they looked out from Blawearie and saw Rob's
horse and sholtie at graze in a park of the Mill, and Long Rob himself,
a dot in the sunlight, making slow way to the moor land he'd wrought at
so long. And as they looked they heard, thin and remote, the sound of a
song Kinraddie had missed for many a day. It wasLadies
of Spain.
Soon maybe the War would end, Chris had dreamt as she
listened to that singing, and they all be back in Kinraddie as once they
had been, Chae and Long Rob and her dark lad, Ewan himself. So she'd
dreamt that morning, she'd never grow out from long dreaming in autumn
dawns like those. And fruition of dream came soon enough, it was a
telegram boy that came riding his bicycle up to Blawearie. Chris read
the telegram, it was Ewan that had sent it,Home
on leave to-night before going to France.She
stared at it and the lad that had brought it, and he asked,Any
reply?and she saidAny
what?and he asked her
again, and she saidNo,and
ran into the kitchen and stared at the writing in the telegram. He was
going to France.
It lingered at the back of her mind, dark, like a black
cat creeping at the back of a hedge, she saw the fluff of its fur or the
peek of its eyes, a wild and sinister thing in the sunlight; but you
would not look often or see those eyes, how they glared at you. He was
going out there, where the sky was a troubled nightmare and the earth
shook night and day, into the lands of the coarse French folk, her Ewan,
her lad with his dark, dear face and that quick, blithe blush. And
suddenly she was filled with a weeping pity in her heart for him, a pity
that brought no tears to her eyes, he must never see her shed tears all
the time he was with her, he'd go out to the dark, far land with
memories of her and Blawearie that were shining and brave and kind.
So all the forenoon she fled and bustled from room to
room, brightening the place, she brought out fresh sheets and pillows
for the bed she had found so lonely, she sent out young Ewan to gather
roses and honeysuckle to set in a jar on the ledge above the bed. And
she hung new curtains there and brought out Ewan's clothes and brushed
them, he'd want to get out of his uniform, they were sick of the khaki
the men that came back. Then she made a great baking against his coming,
so much that she'd hardly time to make dinner for young Ewan and
Brigson, but they didn't care, they were both excited as herself. She
knew the train he would come by, the half-past five, and she swept and
dusted the kitchen and set his tea, and punched a great cushion ready
for his chair, and dressed herself in the blue he liked and young Ewan
in his brave brown cords. John Brigson criedThis
is hardly the placefor
me with your man come home, I'll away to Bervie then for the night.
Off he set, Chris waved to the old, kind childe as he
bicycled down Blawearie brae. And then she ran back, ben to the parlour
to look at herself in the mirror again, in the long glass her figure
seemed blithe and slim even still, she'd be fine to sleep with yet, she
supposed--oh, Ewan! Her face hadn't changed, it was flushed and fair,
the eyes maybe older, but shining and bright. And she finished with that
looking and went over the close to stand by the side of young Ewan,
looking down the hill for his father coming up. The sun flung the long
shadows of Blawearie and the beeches far in the east, and across the
Den, high in the fields of Upperhill, a lost sheep baaed in the whins.
She had hardly been able to believe it him lying awake
after he slept, he slept with a snoring breath and fuddled mumblings,
bulging out against her so that she had but little of the bed and less
of the blankets. She closed her eyes and pressed her knuckles against
her teeth that the pain might waken her, that she might know Ewan hadn't
come home, was still the same Ewan she'd dreamt of in the silence of the
night and her own lonely bed. But he moved, flinging out an arm that
struck her across the face, she lay still below it, then it wabbled
away. She took her knuckles from her mouth and lay quiet then, no need
for her to hurt herself now.
Drunk he had come from the station and more than two
hours late. Standing at last in the kitchen in his kilts he'd looked
round and sneeredHell,
Chris, what a bloody place!as
she ran to him. And he'd flung his pack one way and his hat the other
and kissed her as though she were a tink, his hands on her as quickly as
that, hot and questing and wise as his hands had never been. She saw the
hot smoulder fire in his eyes then, but no blush on his face, it was red
with other things. But she smothered her horror and laughed, and kissed
him and struggled from him, and criedEwan,
who's this!
Young Ewan held back, shy-like, staring, and just saidIt's
father.At that the
strange, swaying figure in the tartan kilts laughed, coarse-like,Well,
we'll hope so, eh Chris? Any supper left--unless you're too bloody
stand-offish even to have that?
She couldn't believe her own ears.Stand-offish?
Oh, Ewan!and ran to him
again, but he shook her away,Och,
all right, I'm wearied. For God's sake let a man sit down.He
staggered to the chair she'd made ready for him, a picture-book of young
Ewan's lay there, he picked the thing up and flung it to the other side
of the room, and slumped down into the chair.Hell,
what a blasted climb to a blasted place. Here, give us some tea.
She sat beside him to serve him, she knew her face had
gone white. But she poured the tea and spread the fine supper she'd been
proud to make, it might hardly have been there for the notice he paid
it, drinking cup after cup of the tea like a beast at a trough. She saw
him clearer then, the coarse hair that sprang like short bristles all
over his head, the neck with its red and angry circle about the collar
of the khaki jacket, a great half-healed scar across the back of his
hand glinted putrescent blue. Suddenly his eyes came on her,Well,
damn't, is that all you've to say to me now I've come home? I'd have
done better to spend the night with a tart in the town.
She didn't say anything, she couldn't, the tears were
choking in her throat and smarting and biting at her eyelids, pressing
to come, the tears that she'd sworn she'd never shed all the time he was
home on leave. And she didn't dare look at him lest he should see, but
he saw and pushed back his chair and got up in a rage,Good
God, what are you snivelling about now? You always were snivelling, I
mind.And out he went,
young Ewan ran to her side and flung his arms round her,Mother,
don't cry, I don't like him, he's a tink, that soldier!She'd
pressed back the tears then,Whist,
Ewan, never say that again;and
got up and cleared off the supper things and went out to the close and
cried gentlyEwan!
He cried backAll
right, all right!still
angrily; and at that some anger kindled within herself, she didn't wait
for him to come back but turned and took young Ewan in her arms and
climbed the stairs and put him to bed, he was vexed and troubled about
her, kissing her as he lay there.Sleep
with me to-night, mother.She
laughed at him, she was sleeping with his father to-night, he must be
good and sleep himself, quick and quick, there'd be such fun with father
the morn. He saidI'll
try,and closed his eyes
and she went down the stairs, it was dark there getting on for eight.
She thought Ewan was still outside but as she made for the lamp
something stirred in the chair, she thought it a cat, it was Ewan. He
caught her and pulled her on to his knees and saidBe
stand-offish now if you can, what the devil do you think I've come home
for?
It had been like struggling with someone deep in a
nightmare, when the blankets are over your head and you can barely
breathe, awful she should come to think that of Ewan. But it wasn't
Ewan, her Ewan, someone coarse and strange and strong had come back in
his body to torment her. He laughed as he fought her there in the chair
and held her tight and began to tell stories--oh, he was drunk and
didn't know what he said, terrible and sickening things, he'd had women
when he pleased in Lanark, he said. And he whispered of them to her, his
breath was hot on her face, she saw the gleam of his teeth, he told her
how he'd lain with them and the things he'd done. Sickened and shamed
she had felt and then worse than that, stopping from struggling, a
shameful, searing desire come on her. And he knew, he knew at once, he
saidWell,
now that you know you can get!
She had picked herself up from the floor and in a dream
went out to milk the kye, leaving him there. When she came back he had
gone from the kitchen, she was slow to finish sieving and skimming the
milk and go up to the room she'd made ready that morning, singing she
had made it ready. And up there he waited her, lying in the bed, he'd
carried up a lamp from the kitchen, they who'd always gone to bed in the
darkness and thought it fine to lie in each other's arms in the
night-glimmer from the window. But now he grumbledFor
God's sake hurry up!and
when she made to put out the light--I'll do that, come on!And
she lay beside him and he took her.
She remembered that now, lying in the darkness the while
he slept, why he had left the lamp alight; and at memory of that
foulness something cold and vile turned and turned like a wheeling
mirror inside her brain. For it had been other things than his
beast-like mauling that had made her whisper in agony,Oh
Ewan, put out the light!The
horror of his eyes upon her she would never forget, they burned and
danced on that mirror that wheeled and wheeled in her brain.
So that was Ewan's homecoming on leave and the days that
went by were the same as that first night foreshadowed. He had gone away
Ewan Tavendale, he came back a man so coarse and cruel that in place of
love hate came singing in the heart of Chris--hate that never found
speech, that but slowly found lodgement secure and unshaken. For often
it seemed to her that a tortured, tormented thing looked out from Ewan's
eyes while he told them his foulest tale, ill-used old Brigson and
jeered at him, came drunken back to Blawearie night after night--that
tortured thing that was the lost lad she had married. But the fancy
wilted and vanished as the days went by. He stayed five days, had his
breakfast in bed, and never got up till dinner-time; he never looked at
the parks or stock or took notice of young Ewan; he dressed in his khaki
and kilts alone, and to Chris's suggestion that he wear a suit--What,
me, dress up like bloody conchy? I'll leave that to your friend, Rob
Duncan.
Every day he went swaggering down the road and was off to
Drumlithie or Stonehaven or Fordoun, drinking there. Before he went he'd
ask for money, Chris gave him all that he asked, not saying a word, but
he'd fancy a reluctance and sneer at her. Wasn't he entitled to what was
his own? Did she think him still the young fool he had been, content to
slave and slave at Blawearie--without as much
as a dram to savour the soss, or a quean or so at night to waken your
blood--nothing but a wife you hardly dared touch in case you put her in
the family way, eh, Chris?
He would say this at dinner-time, sneering and boasting,
old Brigson would colour and look down at his plate and young Ewan stare
and stare at his father till Ewan would sayGod,
what a damned glower! Eyes like your mother and a nature the same;and
he'd swear at the bairn, it was shameful to hear that. He'd made friends
with Mutch, him that once he could hardly abide, and with him he went
driving each night on their drunken sprees. As he went to bed John
Brigson would look at Chris with trouble in his kind old eyes, but she
didn't dare say a thing to him, he'd go stamping slow up above her head
the while she sat down to await Ewan's return and have the hirpling note
of the clock stamp each second in her heart, hating him home, wanting
him home.
For after that first night he had ceased to touch her,
she would lie beside him, quivering and waiting. And he'd lie quiet, she
knew him awake and knew that he knew what she waited; and it was as
though he were a cat that played with a mouse, he would laugh out after
a while and then go to sleep, she herself to lie tortured in the hours
thereafter. The last night she refused the torment, she got up near
three o'clock and kindled a fire and made herself tea and watched the
morning come down the hill passes--a fine summer morning, yellow and
grey and lovely with its chirping of birds in the beeches. And suddenly
then, as always these changes took her, she was calm and secure, putting
Ewan from her heart, locking it up that he never could vex her again,
she was finished with him, either loving or hating. And at that release
she rose and went slow about her work, a great load had gone from her
then, John Brigson coming down in the morning heard her sing and was
cheery himself, cheery with relief, but she sang her release.
At nine o'clock Ewan cried down from his roomWhen
the hell are you bringing some breakfast?She
took no notice of that, but she sent young Ewan out to play and then
went on with her work. And at last she heard a clatter on the stairs,
and there he stood at the kitchen entrance, glaring at her,Have
you gone clean deaf?She
answered him then, raising her head and looking at him,If
you're in need of a breakfast--get it.
He saidYou
bitch!and he made to
strike her. But she caught up a knife from the table, she had it waiting
there nearby, he swore and drew back. She nodded and smiled at that,
calm, and put the knife down and went on with her work.
So he made his own tea, grumbling and swearing, a fine
send-off this for a man that was going to France to do his bit. And
Chris listened to the catch-phrase, contempt in her heart, she looked at
him with curling lip, and he saw her look and swore at her, but was
frightened for all that, always now she knew she had known him the
frightened one. And a queer, cold curiosity came on to her then that so
she should have slaved to tend him and love him and give him the best,
body and mind and soul she had given, for a gift to the body of a
drunken lout from the plough-stilts.
And now that body she saw with a cold repulsion him wash
and shave and dress, she could hardly bear to look at him and went out
and worked in the close, cleaning pots there in the shining weather,
young Ewan played douce and content with his toys, it was hay-time all
down the Howe and the hens came pecking around her. She heard Ewan stamp
about in the kitchen, he wanted that she should look, go running and
fetch him his things. And she smiled again, cold and secure and serene,
and heard him come out and bang the door; and without raising her head
she saw him then. He was all in his gear, the Glengarry on his head, his
pack on his shoulder, his kilts a-swing, and he went past her jauntily,
but she knew he expected her to stop him, to run after him and throw her
arms about him: she saw in his eyes as he went by the fear that she'd
pay no heed.
And none she paid, she did not speak, she did not unbend,
young Ewan stopped from his playing and looked after his father
incuriously, as at a strange alien that went from the place. At the gate
of the close, as he banged it behind him, Ewan stooped to sort up his
garters, red in the face, not looking at her still. And she paid him no
heed.
He swung the pack on his shoulders then and went slow
down the road to the turnpike bend, she saw that from the kitchen
window, knew he believed she would cry to him at the last. And she
smiled, cold and sure, that she knew him so, every action and thought,
and why he stood there at last, not trying to look back. He fumbled for
matches and lighted his pipe as she watched; and a cloud came over the
sun and went on with Ewan, the two of them went down the turnpike then
together, out of her sight in the shadow and flame of the bright sun
weather, it was strange and impossibly strange. She stood long staring
down at that point where he'd vanished, sharp under her breast, tearing
her body, her heart was breaking, and she did not care! She was outside
and away from its travail and agony, he had done all to her that he ever
could now, he who had tramped down the road in that shadow that fled
from the sun.
And then it was she found no salvation at all may endure
for ever, or beyond the pitch that the heart may bear it, she was
weeping and weeping, her arms flung over the kitchen table, weeping for
that Ewan who had never come back, for the shamed, tormented boy with
the swagger airs she had let go from Blawearie without a kiss or a
parting word.Ewan, Ewan!her
heart cried then, breaking and breaking,Oh,
Ewan, I didn't mean it!Ewan--he
was hers, hers still in spite of all he had done and said, he had lived
more closely in her body than the heart that broke now, young Ewan was
his, Oh God, she had never let him go like that! And in her desolation
of weeping she began to pray, she had known it useless, but she prayed
and prayed for him to come back, to kiss her and hold her in kindness
just once before he went down that road. She ran wild-eyed and weeping
to the close and there was John Brigson, he stared dumbfounded as she
criedOh,
don't let him go, run after him, John!
And syne he said he didn't understand, if she meant her
man, it was more than an hour since Ewan had gone down the road, he'd
heard long syne the whistle of his train out across the hills.
It was a month before she heard from him, and then only a
scrape and a score on a thing they called a field postcard written
somewhere in France; and it said no more than that he was well. No more
than a whisper out of the dark cave of days into which he had gone, it
yet salved her mind from the searing agony that tormented the early
weeks. They would never be the same again, but some day he would come
back to her, their madness forgotten, back to her and young Ewan and
Blawearie when the War was done, they'd forget and forget, busy
themselves in new hours and seasons, there would never be fire and
gladness between them again but still undying the labour of the fields
in which she now buried her days.
For she sank herself in that, the way to forget, she was
hardly indoors from dawn to dusk, in all the range of the harvest
weather, running down the bouts behind the binder that John Brigson
drove, little Ewan running and laughing beside her. He thought it a fun
and a play she made, stooking and stooking so quickly then, her hands
became as machines, tireless and quick and ceaseless through the long
hours, she stooked so quickly that with an extra hour each evening, old
Brigson helping her, she was close to the uncut rigs again. Corn and the
shining hollow stalks of the straw, they wove a pattern about her life,
her nights and days, she would creep to bed and dream of the endless
rigs and her hands in the night would waken her, all pins and needles
they would be. Once she went ben to the parlour to look in the glass and
saw then why pity came often in old Brigson's eyes, she was thinner than
ever she'd been, her face was thin, it seemed to her some gloss had gone
from her hair, her eyes grown dull and patient and pupil-less; like the
eyes of a cow.
So, hurt and dazed, she turned to the land, close to it
and the smell of it, kind and kind it was, it didn't rise up and torment
your heart, you could keep at peace with the land if you gave it your
heart and hands, tended it and slaved for it, it was wild and a tyrant,
but it was not cruel. And often, in the night-stooking with old John
Brigson near, a ghost of gladness would come to her then, working under
the coming of the moon before the evening dew came pringling over
Kinraddie, night-birds whistling over the fields, so quiet, so quiet,
stilling away the pain in her body, the pain in her heart that this
reaping and harvesting had brought.
And then Long Rob of the Mill came up to Blawearie. He
came one morning as they started the yavil, he came through the close
and into the kitchen, long and as rangy as ever he was, his face filled
out and his eyes the same, and he criedHow's
Chris? Bonny as ever!And
he caught young Ewan up on his shoulder and Ewan looked down at him,
dark and grave, and smiled, and thought him fine.
Rob had come over to help, he'd no cutting to do; and
when Chris said nay, he mustn't leave the Mill, he twinkled his eyes and
shook his head. And Chris knew he'd have little loss, folk changed and
were changing again, not a soul had driven his corn cart to the Mill
since Long Rob came back. He'd had nothing to do but pleiter about from
park to park and look out on the road for the custom that never came;
and if any came now it could damn well wait, he'd come up to stook
Blawearie.
So the two went down to the park, young Ewan went with
them, and they stooked it together, the best of the crop, Rob cheery as
ever it seemed to Chris. But sometimes his eyes would wander up to the
hills, like a man seeking a thing he had never desired, and into the
iron-blue eyes a shadow like a dark, quiet question would creep. Maybe
he minded the jail and its torments then, he spoke never of that, and
never a word of the War, nor Chris, all the stooking of the yavil park.
Strange she had hardly known him before, Long Rob of the Mill, unco and
atheist; he'd been only the miller with the twinkling eyes, his singings
by morn and his whistlings by night, his stories of horses till your
head fair reeled. Now it seemed she had known him always, closely and
queerly, she felt queer, as though shy, when she sat by his side at the
supper table and he spoke to old Brigson that night. The pallor of the
jail came out in the lamp-light, under the brown that the sun had
brought, and she saw his hand by the side of her hand, thin and strong,
the miller's horse-taming hand.
He bedded young Ewan that night, for a play, and sung him
to sleep, Chris and old Brigson heard the singing as they sat in the
kitchen below,Ladies of
SpainandThere
was a Young FarmerandA'
the Blue Bonnets are Over the Border.Hardly
anybody left in Kinraddie sang these songs, it was full of other tunes
from the bothy windows now,Tipperaryand
squawling English things, like the squeak of a rat that is bedded in
syrup, theLong, Long
Trailand the like. It
was queer and eerie, listening to Rob, like listening to an echo from
far in the years at the mouth of a long lost glen.
And she never knew when and how in the days that
followed, it came on her silently, secretly, out of the earth itself,
maybe, the knowledge she was Rob's to do with as he willed, she willed.
She wanted more than the clap of his hand on her shoulder as they
finished the bout at evening and up through the shadows took their slow
way, by parkside and dyke, to the close that hung drenched with
honeysuckle smell. She wanted more than his iron-blue eye turned on her,
warm and clean and kind though she felt her skin colour below that gaze,
she wanted those things that now all her life she came to know she had
never known--a man to love her, not such a boy as the Ewan that had been
or the poor demented beast he'd become.
And if old John Brigson guessed of those things that
whispered so shamelessly there in her heart he gave never a sign, wise
and canny and kind. And no sign that he knew did Rob give either,
swinging by her side in the harvest that drew to its end. And in Chris
as she bent and straightened and stooked the last day was a prayer to
the earth and fields, a praying that this harvest might never end, that
she and Long Rob would tramp it forever. But the binder flashed its
blades at the head of the last, long bout, and Long Rob had his hand on
her shoulder,He's
finished, Chris quean, and it's clyak!
That evening she went out with him to the gate of the
close, and he swung his coat on his shoulder,Well,
well, Chris lass, I've liked this fine.And
then, not looking at her, he addedI'm
away to Aberdeen to enlist the morn.
For a moment she was stupefied and stared at him
silently, but she had no place in his thoughts, he was staring across
Kinraddie's stooked fields. And then he began to tell her, he'd resolved
on this days before, he couldn't stay out of it longer, all the world
had gone daft and well he might go with the rest, there was neither
trade nor trust for him here, or rest ever again till this War was over,
if it ever ended at all.So
I'm giving in at last, I suppose they'll say. And this is ta-ta, Chris;
mind on me kindly some times.
She held to his hand in the gloaming light and so he
looked down at last, she was biting her lips to keep down the tears, but
he saw them shine brimming then in her eyes. And his own changed,
changed and were kind and then something else, he criedWhy,
lass!and his hand on her
shoulder drew her close, she was close and against him, held tight so
that she felt the slow beat of his heart, she wanted to rest there, safe
and safe in these corded arms. And then she minded that to-morrow he'd
be gone, it cried through the evening in every cry of the lapwings,So
near, so near!
So this also ended as everything else, every thing she
had ever loved and desired went out to the madness beyond the hills on
that ill road that flung its evil white ribbon down the dusk. And it was
her arms then that went round his neck, drawing down his head and
kissing him, queer and awful to kiss a man so, kissing him till she
heard his breath come quick, and he gripped her, pleading with her,We're
daft, Chris quean, we mustn't!But
she knew then she had won, she wound her arms about him, she whisperedThe
haystacks!and he carried
her there, the smell of the clover rose crushed and pungent and sweet
from under her head; and lying so in the dark, held to him, kissing him,
she sought with lips and limbs and blood to die with him then.
But that dark, hot cloud went by, she found herself still
lying there, Rob was there, and she drew his head to her breast, lying
so with him, seeing out below the rounded breasts of the haystacks the
dusky red of the harvest night, this harvest gathered to herself at
last, reaped and garnered and hers in her heart and body. So they were
for hours, John Brigson never called out to them; and then she stood
beside Rob at the head of the road again, drowsy and quiet and content.
They made no promises, kissing for last, she knew already he was growing
remote from her, his eyes already remote to that madness that beckoned
beyond the hills. So it was that he went from her next, she heard him go
step-stepping slow with that swinging stride of his down through the
darkness, and she never saw him again, was never to see him again.
It had burned up as a fire in a whin-bush, that thing in
her life, and it burned out again and was finished. She went about the
Blawearie biggings next day singing under breath to herself, quiet and
unvexed, tending to hens and kye, seeing to young Ewan's sleep in the
day and the setting of old Brigson's supper ere he came at night. She
felt shamed not at all, all the vexing fears had gone from her, she made
no try to turn from the eyes in the glass that looked out at her,
wakened and living again. She was glad she'd gone out with Long Rob,
glad and content, they were one and the same now, Ewan and her.
So the telegram boy that came riding to Blawearie found
her singing there in the close, mending young Ewan's clothes. She heard
the click of the gate and he took the telegram out of his wallet and
gave it to her and she stared at him and then at her hands. They were
quivering like the leaves of the beech in the forecoming of rain, they
quivered in a little mist below her eyes. Then she opened the envelope
and read the words and she said there was no reply, the boy swung on his
bicycle again and rode out, riding and leaning he clicked the gate
behind him; and laughed back at her for the cleverness of that.
She stood up then, she put down her work on the hackstock
and read again in the telegram, and began to speak to herself till that
frightened her and she stopped. But she forgot to be frightened, in a
minute she was speaking again, the chirawking hens in the close stopped
and came near and turned up bright eyes to her loud and toneless
whispering,What
do I do--oh, what do I do?
She was vexed and startled by that--what was it she did!
Did she go out to France and up to the front line, maybe, into a room
where they'd show her Ewan lying dead, quiet and dead, white and
bloodless, sweat on his hair, killed in action? She went out to the
front door and waved to the harvesters, Brigson, young Ewan, and a tink
they'd hired, they saw her and stared till she waved again and then John
Brigson abandoned the half-loaded cart and came waddling up the park, so
slow he was,Did
you cry me, Chris?
Sweat on his hair as sweat on Ewan's. She stared at that
and held out the telegram, he wiped slow hands and took it and read it,
while she clung to the door-post and whispered and whisperedWhat
is it I do now, John? Have I to go out to France?And
at last he looked up, his face was grizzled and hot and old, he wiped
the sweat from it slow.God,
mistress, this is sore news, but he's died like a man out there, your
Ewan's died fine.
But she wouldn't listen to that, wanting to know the
thing she must do; and not till he told her that she did nothing, they
could never take all the widows to France and Ewan must already be
buried, did she stop from that twisting of her hands and ceaseless
whisper. Then anger came,Why
didn't you tell me before? Oh, damn you, you liked tormenting me!and
she turned from him into the house and ran up the stairs to the bed, the
bed that was hers and Ewan's, and lay on it, and put her hands over her
ears trying not to hear a cry of agony in a lost French field, not to
think that the body that had lain by hers, frank and free and kind and
young, was torn and dead and unmoving flesh, blood twisted upon it, not
Ewan at all, riven and terrible, still and dead when the harvest stood
out in Blawearie's land and the snipe were calling up on the loch and
the beech trees whispered and rustled. AndSHE
KNEW THAT IT WAS A LIE!
He wasn't dead, he could never have died or been killed
for nothing at all, far away from her over the sea, what matter to him
their War and their fighting, their King and their country? Kinraddie
was his land, Blawearie his, he was never dead for those things of no
concern, he'd the crops to put in and the loch to drain and her to come
back to. It had nothing to do with Ewan this telegram. They were only
tormenting her, cowards and liars and bloody men, the English generals
and their like down there in London. But she wouldn't bear it, she'd
have the law on them, cowards and liars as she knew them to be!
It was only then that she knew she was moaning, dreadful
to hear; and they heard it outside, John Brigson heard it and nearly
went daft, he caught up young Ewan and ran with him into the kitchen and
then to the foot of the stairs; and told him to go up to his mother, she
wanted him. And young Ewan came, it was his hand tugging at her skirts
that brought her out of that moaning coma, and he wasn't crying,
fearsome the sounds though she made, his face was white and resolute,Mother,
mother!She picked him up
then and held him close, rocking in an agony of despair because of that
look on his face, that lost look and the smouldering eyes he had.Oh
Ewan, your father's dead!she
told him the lie that the world believed. And she wept at last, blindly,
freeingly, for a little, old Brigson was to say it was the boy that had
saved her from going mad.
But throughout Kinraddie the news went underbreath that
mad she'd gone, the death of her man had fair unhinged her. For still
she swore it was a lie, that Ewan wasn't dead, he could never have died
for nothing. Kirsty Strachan and Mistress Munro came up to see her, they
shook their heads and said he'd died fine, for his country and his King
he'd died, young Ewan would grow up to be proud of his father. They said
that sitting at tea, with long faces on them, and then Chris laughed,
they quivered away from her at that laugh.
Country and King? You're havering, havering! What have
they to do with my Ewan, what was the King to him, what their damned
country? Blawearie's his land, it's not his wight that others fight
wars!
She went fair daft with rage then, seeing the pity in
their faces. And also it was then, and then only, staring through an
angry haze at them, that she knew at last she was living a dream in a
world gone mad. Ewan was dead, they knew it and she knew it herself; and
he'd died for nothing, for nothing, hurt and murdered and crying for
her, maybe, killed for nothing: and those bitches sat and spoke of their
King and country. . . .
They ran out of the house and down the brae, and,
panting, she stood and screamed after them. It was fair the speak of
Kinraddie next day the way she'd behaved, and nobody else came up to see
her. But she'd finished with screaming, she went quiet and cold.
Mornings came up, and she saw them come, she minded that morning she'd
sent him away, and she might not cry him back. Noons with their sun and
rain came over the Howe and she saw the cruelty and pain of life as
crimson rainbows that spanned the horizons of the wheeling hours. Nights
came soft and grey and quiet across Kinraddie's fields, they brought
neither terror nor hope to her now. Behind the walls of a sanity cold
and high, locked in from the lie of life, she would live, from the world
that had murdered her man for nothing, for a madman's gibberish heard in
the night behind the hills.
And then Chae Strachan came home at last on leave, he
came home and came swift to Blawearie. She met him out by the kitchen
door, a sergeant by then, grown thinner and taller, and he stopped and
looked in her frozen face. Then, as her hand dropped down from his, he
went past her with swinging kilts, into the kitchen, and sat him down
and took off his bonnet.Chris,
I've come to tell you of Ewan.
She stared at him, waking, a hope like a fluttering bird
in her breast.Ewan?
Chae--Chae's he's not living?And
then, as he shook his head, the frozen wall came down on her heart
again.Ewan's
dead, don't vex yourself hoping else. They can't hurt him more, even
this can't hurt him, though I swore I'd tell you nothing about it. But I
know right well you should know it, Chris. Ewan was shot as a coward and
deserter out there in France.
* * * * * *
Chae had lain in a camp near by and had heard of the
thing by chance, he'd read Ewan's name in some list of papers that was
posted up. And he'd gone the night before Ewan was shot, and they'd let
him see Ewan, and he'd heard it all, the story he was telling her now--better
always to know what truth's in a thing, for lies come creeping home to
roost on unco rees, Chris quean. You're young yet, you've hardly begun
to live, and I swore to myself that I'd tell you it all, that you'd
never be vexed with some twisted bit in the years to come. Ewan was shot
as a deserter, it was fair enough, he'd deserted from the front line
trenches.
He had deserted in a blink of fine weather between the
rains that splashed the glutted rat-runs of the front. He had done it
quickly and easily, he told to Chae, he had just turned and walked back.
And other soldiers that met him had thought him a messenger, or wounded,
or maybe on leave, none had questioned him, he'd set out at ten o'clock
in the morning and by afternoon, taking to the fields, was ten miles or
more from the front. Then the military policemen came on him and took
him, he was marched back and court-martialled and found to be guilty.
And Chae said to him, they sat together in the hut where
he waited the coming of the morning,But
why did you do it, Ewan? You might well have known you'd never get free.And
Ewan looked at him and shook his head,It
was that wind that came with the sun, I minded Blawearie, I seemed to
waken up smelling that smell. And I couldn't believe it was me that
stood in the trench, it was just daft to be there. So I turned and got
out of it.
In a flash it had come on him, he had wakened up, he was
daft and a fool to be there; and, like somebody minding things done in a
coarse wild dream there had flashed on him memory of Chris at Blawearie
and his last days there, mad and mad he had been, he had treated her as
a devil might, he had tried to hurt her and maul her, trying in the
nightmare to waken, to make her waken him up; and now in the blink of
sun he saw her face as last he'd seen it while she quivered away from
his taunts. He knew he had lost her, she'd never be his again, he'd
known it in that moment he clambered back from the trenches; but he knew
that he'd be a coward if he didn't try though all hope was past.
So out he had gone for that, remembering Chris, wanting
to reach her, knowing as he tramped mile on mile that he never would.
But he'd made her that promise that he'd never fail her, long syne he
had made it that night when he'd held her so bonny and sweet and a quean
in his arms, young and desirous and kind. So mile on mile on the laired
French roads: she was lost to him, but that didn't help, he'd try to win
to her side again, to see her again, to tell her nothing he'd said was
his saying, it was the foulness dripping from the dream that devoured
him. And young Ewan came into his thoughts, he'd so much to tell her of
him, so much he'd to say and do if only he might win to Blawearie. . . .
Then the military policemen had taken him and he'd
listened to them and others in the days that followed, listening and not
listening at all, wearied and quiet.Oh,
wearied and wakened at last, Chae, and I haven't cared, they can take me
out fine and shoot me to-morrow, I'll be glad for the rest of it, Chris
lost to me through my own coarse daftness. She didn't even come to give
me a kiss at good-bye, Chae, we never said good-bye; but I mind the
bonny head of her down-bent there in the close. She'll never know, my
dear quean, and that's best--they tell lies about folk they shoot and
she'll think I just died like the rest; you're not to tell her.
Then he'd been silent long, and Chae'd had nothing to
say, he knew it was useless to make try for reprieve, he was only a
sergeant and had no business even in the hut with the prisoner. And then
Ewan said, sudden-like, it clean took Chae by surprise,Mind
the smell of dung in the parks on an April morning, Chae? And the
peewits over the rigs? Bonny they're flying this night in Kinraddie, and
Chris sleeping there, and all the Howe happed in mist.Chae
said that he mustn't mind about that, he was feared that the dawn was
close, and Ewan should be thinking of other things now, had he seen a
minister? And Ewan said that an old bit billy had come and blethered, an
officer creature, but he'd paid no heed, it had nothing to do with him.
Even as he spoke there rose a great clamour of guns far up in the front,
it was four miles off, not more; and Chae thought of the hurried watches
climbing to their posts and the blash and flare of the Verey lights, the
machine-gun crackle from pits in the mud, things he himself mightn't
hear for long: Ewan'd never hear it at all beyond this night.
And not feared at all he looked, Chae saw, he sat there
in his kilt and shirt-sleeves, and he looked no more than a young lad
still, his head between his hands, he didn't seem to be thinking at all
of the morning so close. For he started to speak of Blawearie then and
the parks that he would have drained, though he thought the land would
go fair to hell without the woods to shelter it. And Chae said that he
thought the same, there were sore changes waiting them when they went
back; and then he minded that Ewan would never go back, and could near
have bitten his tongue in half, but Ewan hadn't noticed, he'd been
speaking of the horses he'd had, Clyde and old Bess, fine beasts, fine
beasts--did Chae mind that night of lightning when they found Chris
wandering the fields with those two horses? That was the night he had
known she liked him well--nothing more than
that, so quick and fierce she was, Chae man, she guarded herself like a
queen in a palace, there was nothing between her and me till the night
we married. Mind that--and the singing there was, Chae? What was it that
Chris sang then?
And neither could remember that, it had vexed Ewan a
while, and then he forgot it, sitting quiet in that hut on the edge of
morning. Then at last he'd stood up and gone to the window and saidThere's
bare a quarter of an hour now, Chae, you'll need to be getting back.
And they'd shaken hands, the sentry opened the door for
Chae, and he tried to say all he could for comfort, the foreshadowing of
the morning in Ewan's young eyes was strange and terrible, he couldn't
take out his hand from that grip. And all that Ewan said wasOh
man, mind me when next you hear the peewits over Blawearie--look at my
lass for me when you see her again, close and close, for that kiss that
I'll never give her.So
he'd turned back into the hut, he wasn't feared or crying, he went quiet
and calm; and Chae went down through the hut lines grouped about that
place, a farm-place it had been, he'd got to the lorry that waited him,
he was cursing and weeping then and the driver thought him daft, he
hadn't known himself how he'd been. So they'd driven off, the wet
morning had come crawling across the laired fields, and Chae had never
seen Ewan again, they killed him that morning.
* * * * * *
This was the story Chae told to Chris, sitting the two of
them in the kitchen of Blawearie. Then he moved and got up and she did
the same, and like one coming from a far, dark country, she saw his face
now, he'd been all that time but a voice in the dark. And at last she
found speech herselfNever
vex for me or the telling me this, it was best, it was best!
She crept up the stairs to their room when he'd gone, she
opened the press where Ewan's clothes were, and kissed them and held
them close, those clothes that had once been his near as ever he'd come
to her now. And she whispered then in the stillness, with only the beech
for a listener,Oh,
Ewan, Ewan, sleep quiet and sound now, lad, I understand! You did it for
me, and I'm proud and proud, for me and Blawearie, my dear, my
dear--sleep quiet and brave, for I've understood!
The beech listened and whispered, whispered and listened,
on and on. And a strange impulse and urge came on Chris Tavendale as she
too listened. She ran down the stairs and found young Ewan and kissed
him,Let's
go a jaunt up to the hill.
Below them, Kinraddie; above, the hill; the loch
shimmering and sleeping in the autumn sun; young Ewan at her feet; the
peewits crying down the Howe.
She gave a long sigh and withdrew her hand from the face
of the Standing Stone. The mist of memories fell away and the aching
urge came back--for what, for what? Sun and sky and the loneliness of
the hills, they had cried her up here--for what?
And then something made her raise her eyes, she stood
awful and rigid, fronting him, coming up the path through the broom.
Laired with glaur was his uniform, his face was white and the great hole
sagged and opened, sagged and opened, red-glazed and black, at every
upwards step he took. Up through the broom: she saw the grass wave with
no press below his feet, her lad, the light in his eyes that aye she
could bring.
The snipe stilled their calling, a cloud came over the
sun. He was close to her now and she held out her hands to him, blind
with tears and bright her eyes, the bright weather in their faces, her
voice shaping a question that she heard him answer in the rustle of the
loch-side rushes as closer his soundless feet carried him to her lips
and hands.
Oh lassie, I've come home!he
said, and went into the heart that was his forever.
Folk said that winter that the War had done feint the
much good to Mutch of Bridge End. In spite of his blowing and boasting,
his silver he might as well have flung into a midden as poured in his
belly, though faith! there wasn't much difference in destination. He'd
gone in for the Irish cattle, had Mutch, quick you bought them and quick
you sold and reaped a fine profit with prices so brave. More especially
you did that if you crammed the beasts up with hay and water the morning
before they were driven to the mart, they'd fairly seem to bulge with
beef. But sometimes old Aitken of Bervie, a sly old brute, would give a
bit stirk a wallop in the wame and it would belch like a bellows, and
Aitken would say,Ay,
Mutch, the wind still bloweth as it listeth, I see,he
was aye quoting his bits of poetry, Aitken.
But he'd made silver for all that, Mutch, and many an
awful feed had his great red lugs overhung, there in the Bridge End
while the War went on. For that was how it struck him and his family,
they'd gorge from morn till night, the grocer would stop three times a
week and out to him Alec and his mistress would come, the bairns racing
at the heels of them, and they'd buy up ham and biscuits and cheese and
sausage, and tins of this and tins of that, enough to feed the German
army, folk told--it that was said to be so hungry it was eating up its
own bit corpses, feuch!
Though faith! it was little more than eating their own
corpses they did at Bridge End. And what little they left uneaten they
turned to drink, by the end of the War he'd got him a car, had Alec, it
was only a Ford but it clattered up and down the road to Drumlithie
every day of the week, and back it would bump to the Bridge End place
with beer in crates and whisky in bottles wagging drunken-like over the
hinder end. But Alec would blow and boast as much as ever, he'd say the
Bridge End was a fine bit place and could easily stand him a dram--it's
the knack of farming you want, that's all.
Mutch had just got up and come out blear-eyed that day
when the postman handed him the letter from Kinraddie House. So he had
one read of it and then another, syne he cried to his wifeNine
hundred pounds--have YOU got nine hundred pounds, you?And
she answered him back, canty and cool,No,
I've seen neither silver nor sense since I married you. Why do you need
nine hundred pounds?So
Alec showed her the letter, 'twas long and dreich and went on and on;
but the gist of it was the Trustees were to sell up Kinraddie at last;
and the farmers that wanted them could buy their own places; and if
Mutch of Bridge End still wanted his the price was nine hundred pounds.
So that was how the Mutches left Kinraddie, they said
never a word about buying the place, Alec sold off his stock fell
quietly and they did a moonlight flit; some said they heard the Ford
that night go rattling up by Laurencekirk, others swore that Mutch had
gone north to Aberdeen and had got him a fine bit job in a public-house
there. North or south, feint the thing more folk saw of him; and before
the New Year was out old Gordon of Upperhill had bought up the Bridge
End forbye his own place, he said he would farm the fields with a
tractor. But damn the tractor ever appeared, he put sheep on the place
instead, and sometimes the shepherd would wander into the kitchen where
that gley-eyed wife of Mutch had sat to smoke her bit cigarettes; and he
said that the smell of the damned things lingered there still, they'd
been as unco at changing their skirts, the Mutches, as ever old Pooty
had been.
What with his Germans and ghosts and dirt, he'd fair been
in a way, had old Pooty. Long ere the War had finished he'd have nothing
to do with the mending of boots, he wouldn't let the grocer up to the
door, but would scraich at him to leave the messages out by the road.
And at last he clean went over the gate, as a man might say, he took in
his cuddy to live with him there in the kitchen, and the farmer lads
going by on their bicycles of a Saturday night would hear the two of
them speaking together, old Pooty they'd hear, thinking himself back at
some concert or other in the olden days, reciting his TIMROUS BEASTIE,
stuttering and stammering at the head of his voice. And then he'd be
heard to give the donkey a bit clout, andDamn
you! Clap, you creature!he'd
cry; and it was a fair entertainment.
But at last it grew overmuch to bear, that was just about
the month when the letters went out from the Trustee childes, and folk
said that fell awful sounds were heard coming from the Pooty place, the
creature was clean demented. Not a body would do a thing till at last
old Gordon did, he roaded off with his foreman, they went in old
Gordon's car, it was night, and the nearer they came to Pooty's the more
awful came the sounds. The cuddy was braying and braying in an awful
stamash, they tried to look through the window, but there was a thick
leather blind there and feint the thing could they see. So the foreman
tried the door and it wouldn't budge, but the braying of the cuddy grew
worse and worse; and the foreman was a big bit childe and he took a
great run at the door and open it flew and the sight he saw would have
scunnered a sow from its supper, the coarse old creature was tormenting
the donkey this way and that with a red-hot poker, he scraiched the
beast was a German, and they had to tie him up.
So the foreman went back for his gun and to send a
message to bring the police; and when the police came down next day the
donkey was shot, and some said old Pooty should have been instead. But
they took the old creature away to the madhouse, fair a good riddance to
Kinraddie it was. For a while after that there was speak of the
Upperhill's foreman biding at Pooty's, he wanted to marry and it would
be fine and close for his work. And the foreman said the place was fine
if you thought of breeding a family of swine; but he was neither a boar
himself nor was his quean a bit sow.
So the place began to moulder away, soon the roof went
all agley and half fell in, it was fit for neither man nor beast, the
thistles and weeds were all over the close, right they'd have pleased
old Pooty's cuddy if he'd lived to see them. It looked a dreich, cold
place as you rode by at night, near as lonesome as the old Mill was, and
not near so handy. For the Mill was a place you could take your quean
to, you'd lean your bicycles up by the wall and take a peek through the
kitchen window; syne off you'd go, your two selves, and sit inside the
old Mill itself; and your quean would sayDon't!and
smooth her short skirts, and she'd tell you youwouldbe
lucky if you got two dances at the Fordoun ball, John Edwards was to
take her there in his side-car, mind.
For Long Rob had never come back to the Mill. It had fair
been a wonder him joining the soldiers and going off to the War the way
he did--after swearing black was blue that he'd never fight, that the
one was as bad as the other, Scotch or German. Some said it was just
plain daft he had gone, with no need for him to enlist; but when Munro
of the Cuddiestoun told that to Chris Tavendale up at Blawearie she said
there had been more sweetness and sense in Rob's little finger that in
all the Munro carcases clecked since the Flood. Ill to say that to a man
of an age with your father, it showed you the kind of creature Chris
Tavendale was, folk shook their heads, minding how she'd gone near mad
when her man was killed; as if he'd been the only one! And there was her
brother, Will was his name, that had come from the War in a queer bit
uniform, French he had said that it was; but them that were fine
acquainted with uniforms weren't so sure, the Uhlans had worn uniforms
just like that.
Theyhad
been the German horse-billies away back at the War's beginning, you
minded, and syne shook your head over that, and turned to thinking of
Long Rob again, him that was killed in the April of the last year's
fighting. He'd been one of the soldiers they'd rushed to France in such
hurry when it seemed that the German childes were fair over us, and he'd
never come back to Kinraddie again, just notice of his death came
through and syne a bit in the paper about him. You could hardly believe
your eyes when you read it, him such a fell pacifist, too, he'd been
killed in a bit retreat, that they made, him and two-three more billies
had stood up to the Germans right well and held them back while the
Scots retreated; they'd held on long after the others had gone, and Rob
had been given a medal for that. Not that he got it, faith! he was dead,
they came on his corpse long after, the British, but just as a mark of
respect.
And you minded Long Rob right well, the long rangy
childe, with his twinkling eyes and his great bit mouser and those
stories of his that he'd deave you with, horses and horses, damn't! he
had horses on the brain. There'd been his coarse speak about religion,
too, fair a scandal once in the Howe, but for all that he'd been a fine
stock, had Rob, you minded him singing out there in the morning, he'd
sung--And you couldn't mind what the song had been till maybe a bairn
would up and tell you, they'd heard it often on the way to school, and
Ay, it wasLadies of
Spain.You heard feint
the meikle of those old songs now, they were daft and old-fashioned,
there were fine new ones in their places, right from America, folk said,
and all about the queer blue babies that were born there, they were
clever brutes, the Americans.
Well, that was the Mill, all its trade was gone, old
Gordon bought up its land for a two-three pounds, and joined the lot on
to Upperhill. Jock Gordon came blinded back from the War, they said he'd
been near demented at first when he lost the use of his eyes. But old
Gordon was making silver like dirt, he coddled up Jock like a pig with a
tit, and he'd settled down fell content, as well the creature might be,
with all he could smoke or drink at his elbow, and his mother near ready
to lick his boots. Fell gentry and all they were now, the Gordons, you
couldn't get within a mile of the Upperhill without you'd hear a blast
of the English, so fine and genteel; and the ploughmen grew fair mad
when they dropped in for a dram at Drumlithie Hotel and some billy would
up and ask,Is't
true they dish you out white dickies at Upperhill now and you've all to
go to the Academy?
He was one of the folk that broke up the ploughmen's
Union, old Gordon, right proud he was of it, too; and faith, the man was
but right, whoever heard tell of such nonsense, a Union for ploughmen?
But he didn't get off scot-free, faith, no! For what should happen in
the General Election but that the secretary of the Farm Servants' Union
put up as a candidate for the Mearns; and from far and near over
Scotland a drove of those socialist creatures came riding to help him,
dressed up in specs and baggy breeks and stockings with meikle checks.
Now, one of them was a doctor childe and up to the
Upperhill he came on a canvass, like, when old Gordon and the wife had
driven off to lend help to the Coalition. The door was opened by Maggie
Jean, she'd grown up bonny as a flower in spring, a fine quean, sweet
and kind, with no English airs. And damn't if they didn't take up, the
doctor and her, all in a minute, the doctor forgot about the bothy he'd
come to canvass and Maggie Jean had him in to tea, and they spoke on
politics for hours and hours, the servant quean told, she said it was
nothing but politics; and there have been greater miracles.
Well, the next thing was that old Gordon found his men
being harried to vote for the Labour man, harried by his own lass Maggie
Jean, it sent him fair wild and the blind son too. But Maggie Jean
didn't care a fig, the doctor childe had turned her head; and when the
election was over and the Labour man beaten she told her father she
wasn't going on to the college any longer, she was set on marrying her
Labour doctor. Gordon said he'd soon put his foot on that, she wasn't of
age and he'd stop the marriage. But Maggie Jean put her arms round his
neck,I know, but you
wouldn't like people to point at you and say 'Have you heard of old
Gordon's illegitimate grandchild?'And
at that they say old Gordon fair caved in,Oh,
my lass, my Maggie Jean, you haven't done that!For
answer Maggie Jean just stood and laughed, shaky-like, though, till ben
came Mistress Gordon herself and heard the news, and started in on the
lass. Syne Maggie Jean grew cool as ice,Very
well, then, mother, I hear there's a good bed in Stonehaven Workhouse
where women can have their babies.
So she won in the end, you may well be sure, the Gordons
fair rushed the marriage, and every now and then the doctor and Maggie
Jean would take a bit look at each other and laugh out loud, they
weren't a bit ashamed or decent. And when the wedding was over Mistress
Gordon saidIt's glad I am
that you're off from Kinraddie to Edinburgh, where the shame of your
half-named bairn won't aye be cast in my face.And
Maggie Jean saidWhat
bairn, mother? I'm not to have a baby yet, you know, unless George and I
get over-enthusiastic to-night.Fair dumbfoundered was Mistress
Gordon, she gasped,But
you said that you were with a bairn!and
Maggie Jean just shook her head and laughed.Oh,
no, I just asked father if he'd like to grandfather one. And I don't
suppose that he would. I won't have time for babies for years yet,
mother, I'm to help ORGANIZING THE FARM SERVANTS!
Ah well, folk said there was damned little chance of
Nellie, the other bit daughter, ever having anything legitimate or
illegitimate, she was growing up as sour and wizened as an old potato,
for all her English she'd sleep cold and unhandled, an old maid all her
days. But faith! you're sure of nothing in this world, or whoever would
have guessed that Sarah Sinclair, the daft old skate, would go marrying?
It all came through the War and the stir at the Netherhill when old
Sinclair bought up the Knapp and his own bit place all at one whip.
Soon's she heard of that Sarah went to him and saidYou
did plenty for Kirsty and she'll not be needing the Knapp any more, you
can bravely settle me there!
Old Sinclair, he was nearly ninety and blind, he stared
at her like a stirk at a water-jump, and then cried for his wife. And
Sarah told them she meant what she said, Dave Brown, the Gourdon childe,
would marry her the morn if they'd Peesie's Knapp to sit down in.
And she got her way, but she didn't get the land, old
Sinclair pastured his sheep on it, and Dave stayed on as a Netherhill
ploughman. So Sarah was married off at last and taken to bed in the
house that had been her sister's. She soon had her man well in hand, had
Sarah, folk said she'd to take him to bed by the lug the first night,
but there are aye coarse brutes to say things like that. And damn it, if
before a twelvemonth was up she didn't have a bairn, a peely-wally girl,
but a bairn for all that. It wasn't much, but still it was something,
and when old Sinclair heard the news he got it all mixed, he was in bed
by then and sinking fast, he thought it was Kirsty's first bairn that
they told of, and all the time he kept whisperingChae!he
wanted his good-son, Chae, that had married Kirsty long syne.
But Chae had been gone long ere that, he was killed in
the first fighting of Armistice Day, an hour before the guns grew quiet.
You minded him well and the arguings he'd have with Long Rob of the
Mill; he'd have been keen for the Labour candidate, for Rich and Poor
were as far off being Equal as ever they'd been, poor Chae. Ay, it
struck you strange that he'd gone, fine childe he had been though a bit
of a fool that you laughed at behind his back.
In his last bit leave folk said he'd been awful quiet,
maybe he knew right well he would never come back, he tramped the parks
most of the time, muttering of the woods they'd cut and the land that
would never get over it. And when he said good-bye to Kirsty it wasn't
just the usual slap on the shoulder andWell,
I'm away!He held her and
kissed her, folk saw it at the station, and he saidBe
good to the bairns, lass.And
Kirsty, the meikle sumph, had stood there crying as the train went out,
you'd have thought she'd have had more sense with all the folk glowering
at her. And that was the last of Chae, you'd say, except that in the
November of nineteen-eighteen they sent home his pocket-book and hankies
and things; and they'd been well washed, but blood lay still in the
pouch of the pocket-book, cold and black, and when Kirsty saw it she
screamed and fainted away.
Women had little guts, except, one or two, said Munro of
the Cuddiestoun, as though he himself had been killing a German for
breakfast every day of the War. And maybe that's what he'd liked to
think as he chased the hens and thrawed their necks for the hospital
trade, or swore at the daftie, Tony, over this or that. Feint the much
heed paid Tony, though, he'd just stand about the same as ever, staring
at the ground and driving Mistress Munro fair out of her senses when
she'd sent him to lower the heat in one incubator or raise it up in
another. For it was more than likely the creature would do clean the
opposite of what he'd been told, and syne stand and glower at the ground
a whole afternoon till somebody came out to look for him and would find
every damned egg hard-boiled or stone cold, as the case might be. Some
said he wasn't so daft, he did it for spite, but you'd hardly believe
that a daftie would have the sense for that.
But nobody could deny the Munros had got on, they'd clean
stopped from farming every park except one to grow their potatoes in,
all the rest were covered with runs and rees for the hens, they'd made a
fair fortune with their poultry and all. You'd never hear such a scraich
in your life as when night-time came and they closed up the Cuddiestoun
rees, it was then that Mistress Munro would nip out a cockerel here and
an old hen there and thraw the creature's neck as quick as you'd blink
and syne sit up half the night in the plucking of the birds. They'd
hardly ever a well-cooked meal in the house themselves, but if their
stomachs had little in them their bank books knew no lack, maybe one
more than consoled for the other. But Ellison said that they made him
sick, the only mean Scotch he'd ever met, and be damned if they didn't
make up for all the free ones.
Though that was only the kind of speak you'd expect from
an Irish creature, he still spoke like one, fell fat he'd grown, his
belly wabbled down right near to his knees and his breeks were meikle in
girth. When the Trustees sent out their notice to buy, folk wondered
what he'd do, there'd be an end to Ellison now, they said. But sore
mistaken they found themselves, he bought up the Mains, stock and all,
he bought up the ruins of Kinraddie House, and he bought Blawearie when
there were no bids, he got it for less than two hundred pounds. And
where had he got all that money except that he stole it?
Fair Kinraddie's big man he thought himself, faith! folk
laughed at him and called him the waiter-laird, Cospatric that killed
the gryphon would have looked at him sore surprised. He spoke fell big
about tractors for ploughing, but then the slump came down and his
blowing with it, he bought up sheep for Blawearie instead. And that was
the way things went in the end on the old bit place up there on the
brae, sheep baaed and scrunched where once the parks flowed thick with
corn, no corn would come at all, they said, since the woods went down.
And the new minister when he preached his incoming sermon criedThey
have made a desert and they call it peace;and
some had no liking of the creature for that, but God! there was truth in
his speak.
For the Gibbons had gone clean out of Kinraddie, there'd
be far more room and far less smell, folk said, Stuart Gibbon had never
come back from the War to stand in the pulpit his father had held. Not
that he'd been killed, no, no, you might well depend that the great,
curled steer had more sense in him than that. But the gentry liked him
in Edinburgh right well in his Chaplain's uniform, and syne he fell in
with some American creatures that controlled a kirk in New York. And
they asked him if he'd like to have that kirk, all the well-off Scots
went to it; and he took the offer like a shot and was off to America
before you could wink, him and that thin bit English wife of his and
their young bit daughter. Well, well, he'd done well for himself, it was
plain to see; no doubt the Americans would like him fine, they could
stand near anything out in America, their stomachs were awful tough with
all the coarse things that they ate out of tins.
As for the father, the old man that had had such an
ill-will for the Germans, he'd grown over-frail to preach and had to
retire; and faith! if the British armies had killed half the Germans
with their guns that he did with his mouth it would have been a clean
deserted Germany long ere the end of the War. But off he went at last
and only two ministers made try for the pulpit, both of them young, the
one just a bit student from Aberdeen, the other new out of the Army.
There seemed little to choose between the pair, they'd no pulpit voices,
either of them, but folk thought it only fair to give the soldier billy
the chance.
And it was only after he headed the leat, Colquohoun was
his name, that the story went round he was son to that old minister from
Banff that made try for Kinraddie before the War and was fair
out-preached by the Reverend Gibbon. You minded him, surely?--he'd
preached about beasts and the Golden Age, that the dragons still lived
but sometime they'd die and the Golden Age come back. Feuch ah! no
sermon at all, you might say. Well, that was him and this was the son,
thin and tall, with a clean-shaven face, and he lectured on this and he
wrote on that and he made himself fair objectionable before he'd been
there a month. For he chummed up with ploughmen, he drove his own coal,
he never wore a collar that fastened at the back, and when folk called
him the Reverend he pulled them up sharp--reverent, I am, no more, my
friend.And he whistled
when he went on a Sunday walk and he stormed at farmers for the pay they
paid and he helped the ploughman's Union; and he'd preach just rank
sedition about it, and speak as though Christ had meant Kinraddie, and
folk would grow fair uncomfortable.
You couldn't well call him pro-German, like, for he'd
been a plain soldier all through the War. Folk felt clean lost without a
bit name to hit at him with, till Ellison said he was a Bolshevik, one
of those awful creatures, coarse tinks, that had made such a spleiter in
Russia. They'd shot their king-creature, the Tsar they called him, and
they bedded all over the place, folk said, a man would go home and find
his wife commandeered any bit night and Lenin and Trotsky lying with
her. And Ellison said that the same would come in Kinraddie if Mr.
Colquohoun had his way; maybe he was feared for his mistress, was
Ellison, though God knows there'd be little danger ofherbeing
commandeered, even Lenin and Trotsky would fair be desperate before they
would go to that length.
Well, that was your new minister, then; and next there
came scandalous stories that he'd taken up with young Chris Tavendale.
Nearly every evening of the week he'd ride up to Blawearie, and bide
there all the hours of the night, or so folk said. And what could he
want with a common bit quean like the Tavendale widow? Ministers took up
with ladies if they meant no jookery-packery. But when Munro said that
to old Brigson the creature fair flew into a rage; and he said that many
a decent thing had gone out of Kinraddie with the War but that only one
had come in, and that was the new minister.
Well, well, it might be so and it mightn't; but one night
Dave Brown climbed up the hill from the Knapp, to see old Brigson about
buying a horse, and he heard folk speaking inside the kitchen and he
took a bit keek round the door. And there near the fire stood Chris
herself, and the Reverend Colquohoun was before her, she was looking up
into the minister's face and he'd both her hands in his. AndOh,
my dear, maybe the second Chris, maybe the third, but Ewan has the first
for ever!she was saying,
whatever she meant by that; and syne as Dave Brown still looked the
minister bent down and kissed her, the fool.
Folk said that fair proved the stories were true, but the
very next Sunday the minister stood up in the pulpit, and, calm as ever,
read out the banns of Upperhill's foreman and his quean from Fordoun,
and syne the banns ofRobert
Colquohoun, bachelor of this parish, and Christine Tavendale, widow,
also of this same parish.
You could near have heard a pin drop then, so quiet it
was in the kirk, folk sat fair stunned. And there'd never been such a
claik in Kinraddie as when the service was over and the congregation got
out--ay, Chris Tavendale had feathered her nest right well, the sleeked
creature, who'd have thought it of her?
And that made the minister no more well-liked with
Kinraddie's new gentry, you may well be sure. But worse than that came;
he'd been handed the money, the minister, to raise a memorial for
Kinraddie's bit men that the War had killed. Folk thought he'd have a
fine stone angel, with a night-gown on, raised up at Kinraddie
cross-roads. But he sent for a mason instead and had the old stone
circle by Blawearie loch raised up and cleaned and set all in place,
real heathen-like, and a paling put round it. And after reading out his
banns on that Sunday the minister read out that next Saturday the
Kinraddie Memorial would be unveiled on Blawearie brae, and that he
expected a fine attendance, whatever the weather--they'd
to attend in ill weather, the folk that fell.
Fine weather for January that Saturday brought, sunny,
yet caller, you could see the clouds come sailing down from the north
and over the sun and off again. But there was rain not far, the seagulls
had come sooning inland; for once the snipe were still. Nearly every
soul in Kinraddie seemed climbing Blawearie brae as the afternoon wore
on, a fair bit stir there was in the close, the place was empty of
horses and stock, Chris would be leaving there at the term. Soon she'd
be down at the Manse instead, and a proud-like creature no doubt she'd
be.
Well, up on the brae through the road in the broom there
drew a fell concourse of folk, Ellison was there, and his mistress, and
the Gordons and gentry generally, forbye a reischle of ploughmen and
queans, lying round on the grass and sniggering. There was the old
circle of the Standing Stones, the middle one draped with a clout, you
wondered what could be under it and how much the mason had charged. It
was high, there, you saw as you sat in the grass and looked round, you
could see all Kinraddie and near half the Howe shine under your feet in
the sun,Out of the World
and into Blawearieas the
old speak went. And faith! the land looked unco and woe with its woods
all gone, even in the thin-sun-glimmer there came a cold shiver up over
the parks of the Knapp and Blawearie folk said that the land had gone
cold and wet right up to the very Mains.
Snow was shining in the Grampians, far in the coarse
hills there, and it wouldn't be long ere the dark came. Syne at last the
minister was seen coming up, he'd on the bit robes that he hardly ever
wore, Chris Tavendale walked by the side of him and behind was a third
childe that nobody knew, a Highlander in kilts and with pipes on his
shoulder, great and red-headed, who could he be? And then Ellison
minded, he said the man had been friend to young Ewan Tavendale, he'd
been the best man at Ewan's marriage, McIvor his name was.
The minister held open the gate for Chris and through it
she came, all clad in her black, young Ewan's hand held fast in hers,
he'd grown fair like his father, the bairn, dark-like and solemn he was.
Chris's face was white and solemn as well except when she looked at the
minister as he held the gate open, it was hardly decent the look that
she gave him, they might keep their courting till the two were alone.
Folk criedAy, minister!and
he cried back cheerily and went striding to the midst of the old stone
circle, John Brigson was standing there with his hands on the strings
that held the bit clout.
The minister said,Let
us pray,and folk took
off their hats, it smote cold on your pow. The sun was fleering up in
the clouds, it was quiet on the hill, you saw young Chris stand looking
down on Kinraddie with her bairn's hand in hers. And then the Lord's
Prayer was finished, the minister was speaking just ordinary, he said
they had come to honour the folk whom the War had taken, and that the
clearing of this ancient site was maybe the memory that best they'd have
liked. And he gave a nod to old Brigson and the strings were pulled and
off came the clout and there on the Standing Stone the words shone out
in their dark grey lettering, plain and short:
FOR : THE : MEMORY : OF : CHA
RLES : STRACHAN : JAMES :
LESLIE : ROBERT : DUNCAN :
EWAN : TAVENDALE : WHO :
WERE: OF : THIS : LAND : AND:
FELL: IN : THE : GREAT : WAR:
IN : FRANCE : REVELATION :
II CH : 28 VERSE
And then, with the night waiting out by on Blawearie
brae, and the sun just verging the coarse hills, the minister began to
speak again, his short hair blowing in the wind that had come, his voice
not decent and a kirk-like bumble, but ringing out over the loch:
FOR I WILL GIVE YOU THE MORNING STAR
In the sunset of an age and an epoch we may write that
for epitaph of the men who were of it. They went quiet and brave from
the lands they loved, though seldom of that love might they speak, it
was not in them to tell in words of the earth that moved and lived and
abided, their life and enduring love. And who knows at the last what
memories of it were with them, the springs and the winters of this land
and all the sounds and scents of it that had once been theirs, deep, and
a passion of their blood and spirit, those four who died in France? With
them we may say there died a thing older than themselves, these were the
Last of the Peasants, the last of the Old Scots folk. A new generation
comes up that will know them not, except as a memory in a song, they
passed with the things that seemed good to them with loves and desires
that grow dim and alien in the days to be. It was the old Scotland that
perished then, and we may believe that never again will the old speech
and the old songs, the old curses and the old benedictions, rise but
with alien effort to our lips.
The last of the peasants, those four that you knew,
took that with them to the darkness and the quietness of the places
where they sleep. And the land changes, their parks and their steadings
are a desolation where the sheep are pastured, we are told that great
machines come soon to till the land, and the great herds come to feed on
it, the crofter has gone, the man with the house and the steading of his
own and the land closer to his heart than the flesh of his body.
Nothing, it has been said, is true but change, nothing abides, and here
in Kinraddie where we watch the building of those little prides and
those little fortunes on the ruins of the little farms we must give heed
that these also do not abide, that a new spirit shall come to the land
with the greater herd and the great machines. For greed of place and
possession and great estate those four had little head, the kindness of
friends and the warmth of toil and the peace of rest--they asked no more
from God or man, and no less would they endure.
So, lest we shame them, let us believe that the new
oppressions and foolish greeds are no more than mists that pass. They
died for a world that is past, these men, but they did not die for this
that we seem to inherit. Beyond it and us there shines a greater hope
and a newer world, undreamt when these four died. But need we doubt
which side the battle they would range themselves did they live to-day,
need we doubt the answer they cry to us even now, the four of them, from
the places of the sunset?
And then, as folk stood dumbfounded, this was just sheer
politics, plain what he meant, the Highland man McIvor tuned up his
pipes and began to step slow round the stone circle by Blawearie Loch,
slow and quiet, and folk watched him, the dark was near, it lifted your
hair and was eerie and uncanny, theFlowers
of the Forestas he
played it:
It rose and rose and wept and cried, that crying for the
men that fell in battle, and there was Kirsty Strachan weeping quietly
and others with her, and the young ploughmen they stood with glum, white
faces, they'd no understanding or caring, it was something that vexed
and tore at them, it belonged to times they had no knowing of.
He fair could play, the piper, he tore at your heart
marching there with the tune leaping up the moor and echoing across the
loch, folk said that Chris Tavendale alone shed never a tear, she stood
quiet, holding her boy by the hand, looking down on Blawearie's fields
till the playing was over. And syne folk saw that the dark had come and
began to stream down the hill, leaving her there, some were uncertain
and looked them back. But they saw the minister was standing behind her,
waiting for her, they'd the last of the light with them up there, and
maybe they didn't need it or heed it, you can do without the day if
you've a lamp quiet-lighted and kind in your heart.
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