The Road to Rowanbrae (12 page)

Jean's mouth pinched briefly. ‘You've only twa rooms in your hoose, Mysie, so does he sleep wi' you or wi' Sandy?'

‘It's nane o' your business,' Mysie said, sharply, ‘but I'm nae ashamed to say he sleeps wi' me, as you ken't withoot askin'. Can you blame me if you think back on what Jeems was like?'

Unabashed, Mrs Petrie said, ‘Aye, weel, but you took Jeems for your wedded husband an' had twa bairns to him … or maybe they're Doddie's, for a' we ken?'

‘You ken fine I never met Doddie till yon meal an' ale, an' you took good care to tell Jeems aboot that.'

A look of shocked indignation covered the woman's face now. ‘Och, noo, Mysie, if it hadna been me, somebody else would ha'e tell't him, for a'body in the place ken't. You canna hide a thing like that.'

Ignoring her, Mysie pushed past them and hooked one of her pails on to the cable in the well.

‘Far be it fae me to cause trouble,' Jean Petrie continued, ‘but I think you should ken what Sandy's been sayin' to some o' the other bairns in the school playground.'

Her curiosity getting the better of her, Mysie turned round as she let the pail down. ‘What's he been sayin' noo?'

‘He was blawin' that you'll nae need Doddie at Rowanbrae when he's bigger, for he'll dae a'thing himsel'. I think he doesna like your fancy man very muckle.'

Mysie, nauseated by the woman's nerve, concentrated on what she was doing, but the insinuating voice behind her carried on. ‘Of course, he's only a bairn, an' maybe his father'll be back afore he grows up, an' Jeems'll put Doddie oot on his lug.'

Hooking the two full pails on to her yoke, Mysie walked away, her cheeks flaming and her mouth set in a thin straight line, furious at Sandy for providing Jean Petrie with the fodder to feed her vicious tongue. Her mind was so preoccupied that she almost bumped into Jess Findlater who was making for the shop early, having run out of yellow soap.

‘My God, Mysie! What's up wi' you this mornin'?'

‘I'm sorry, Jess, I didna see you, I'm that mad.'

‘Mad? You'd best tell me aboot it, lass, for a trouble shared is a trouble halfed, as they say.'

Laying down her pails, Mysie told her, including also what Sandy had said to her about Doddie months earlier and the way he treated him now.

‘Ach,' Jess said, ‘you shouldna tak' ony notice o' that bitch Petrie, an' Sandy's likely jealous o' Doddie, for he had you to himsel' for a while and he'll think his nose is oot o' joint. He'll grow oot o' it, so dinna say onything to him, or Doddie either, it'd only mak' things worse. I'll maybe gi'e you a cry in on my road hame to see if you've calmed doon.'

‘I've calmed doon already, just speakin' to you,' Mysie said, earnestly. ‘I dinna ken what I'd dae withoot you, Jess.'

In her own kitchen, Mysie laughed at herself for letting Jean Petrie get under her skin, but she was dismayed at how serious Jess was when she called in on her way home. ‘I was thinkin', Mysie, but I dinna ken if I should tell you.'

‘You'd best tell me, whatever it is.'

‘Weel, I ken I promised never to speak aboot this again, but would Sandy think Doddie had something to dae wi' Jeems … eh … goin' awa'?'

Mysie kept her voice steady. ‘No, I'm sure he doesna.'

‘Och weel, if you're sure that's nae what it is, it'll just be jealousy right enough.'

Jess chattered on, but for the first time since she'd known her, Mysie was glad when her neighbour left and she had peace to consider Sandy's behaviour. There was no reason for him to think that Doddie had anything to do with Jeems's disappearance, not unless … She put her hand on her chest as the thought struck her.
Had
Doddie been there that night, as she half suspected, and had Sandy heard him? Worse, had he seen him stabbing Jeems? Was that why the bairn was so against him? But Sandy couldn't have heard or seen anything; he had still been sound asleep when she looked in at him before she ran to Downies. It must be jealousy – he must realise that she loved Doddie best – and she would have to show him more affection.

When the boy came home from school, she helped him with his home lessons and was as patient as she could be, then, as they sat down to have supper, she patted his hand. ‘It's just me an' you the nicht, Sandy.'

He looked away, shifting his hand. She couldn't make out why he was behaving like this – he couldn't know that she'd been told what he was saying at school – and she was alarmed to see a slyness in his eyes, like he was contemplating doing something he knew was wrong. Her mind eased when he went to bed – tomorrow was another day, and Sandy's moods had always been like quicksilver, changing from one minute to the next.

At nine o'clock, she undressed and went to bed, tired out with the additional work she'd had to do with Doddie away, and, being safe in the knowledge that he wouldn't come home drunk, she fell into a sound sleep almost at once.

Lying awake, Sandy heard the bedsprings creak as his mother lay down, and felt his heart thudding against his ribs. He had planned everything out, but now that the time had come, he was almost afraid to go ahead. What if she woke up and saw what he was doing? No, he would be as quiet as a mouse, and she wouldn't know what he'd done until the morning. Then she'd see that she didn't need Doddie Wilson – or anybody else, except him. He would prove to her that he was as good as any man.

He waited for a long time, then slid his feet on to the floor and lifted his breeches to take out the box of matches he had got from Robbie Duff that afternoon. Then he lit his candle and, easing his door open, tiptoed silently across the kitchen to the table and set the candle down beside the new lamp that Doddie had bought some months before. It was beautiful, brass with a glass globe on top of the part that held the paraffin, and he wished that he'd watched when Doddie filled it, but it should be easy enough if he was careful.

He couldn't go out the back way for fear of disturbing his mother – her bed was on that wall – but she wouldn't hear him if he went through the front porch. Once outside, he ran round the house to the yard. The can of paraffin was kept at the end of the hen run and was very heavy, but he only had to lay it down twice before he got it inside.

The next bit was the tricky bit. Unscrewing the cap of the can first, he took off the stopper on the lamp then tried to lift the can far enough up to pour in the oil. After a long struggle, he realised that it would be easier if the lamp was on the floor and moved it down. When he tipped the tin over, the paraffin gushed out over the foot of his nightshirt and the rug, but his determination made him persevere. On his next attempt, the liquid spurted all over the lamp, but eventually he got the hang of it, and poured it straight into the hole. A second later, the lamp overflowed – it hadn't needed filling, after all, or else his mother had done it during the day – and he sat back on his heels, disappointment almost choking him.

But she would be pleased that he'd been able to do it, he thought, cheering up, and she would let him do other jobs she hadn't let him do before. She wouldn't be very pleased about the wet rug, though, so he'd better clean it before he went back to bed. First, he'd have to put the lamp up on the table again, and take the can back to where it belonged.

As he turned towards the door, he remembered having seen his father using a funnel to fill the old lamp, and wished that he had remembered earlier. The tin was much lighter than it had been when he took it in, and having replaced it, he thought he had better go to the ‘wee hoosie' as long as he was outside. A high wind had sprung up, but even the cold blast around his legs didn't lessen his jubilation at having proved how clever he was. His mother would see that there was nothing special about Doddie, and she would give all her love to her son now.

Alas, as Sandy might have known if he had been older, pride always comes before a fall – another gust of wind had whirled through the open porch door and blown his candle over. When he came over the threshold, only minutes later, he stopped in horror at the sight of the fire snaking over the table towards the lamp, and down the side leaves where some of the paraffin had splashed. Then he ran forward, screaming, ‘Mam! Mam!'

At that moment, the flames reached the saturated rug, and this explosion was followed by another as the fire penetrated the container of the lamp. Within seconds, the whole kitchen was a blazing inferno.

Chapter Twelve

As the horse plodded home, unguided in the darkness, the miller and Rab Duff were roaring out verse after bawdy verse of ‘The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre', followed, just as unmelodically, by an even bawdier version of ‘The Ball o' Kirriemuir', then, their mood changing, ‘The Dying Ploughboy'. This left them somewhat maudlin, and Doddie Wilson was glad when they fell asleep, for at long last he had time to think about what he had done.

It wasn't that he didn't love Mysie – he loved her with all his heart – but it was quite obvious that it would be a long time before Sandy accepted him. He wasn't really a part of her family, not legally, and it looked as if he never would be. He could never marry her as long as she still believed that Jeems Duncan was still alive, and he couldn't go on the way things were. That was the reason he had taken the King's shilling that forenoon.

He half regretted it now, but he had committed himself and couldn't back out; besides, he needed to get away. Maybe, by the time the war ended, he would feel differently – not about Mysie, for his feelings for her would never change, but about the whole situation – and maybe Sandy would feel differently. The boy would surely think more of a soldier returned from the war, and they could all go away together and make a new start where nobody knew anything about them.

The cart was about five miles from Burnlea when a glow in the sky caught Doddie's attention. It was likely a barn on fire, he thought, but, trying to figure out from the direction which was the unlucky farm, he realised, in deep alarm, that it was neither Fingask nor Waterton, but somewhere in between. In sudden panic, he grabbed the reins from Andra White's inert hands, and urged the horse on, faster and faster.

The miller woke up as they jolted over a large stone. ‘My God, Doddie, what's your hurry, man?'

Rab Duff opened his eyes, and murmured, sleepily, ‘You surely canna be that desperate to get back to Mysie? It would suit me fine if I never saw my Belle again, for she's …'

‘There's a fire!' Doddie shouted. ‘I'm nae sure if it's Jake Findlater's place or Mysie's, but …'

‘God, aye.' Andra focussed his eyes on the conflagration. ‘That's some blaze. It's ower near Waterton to be the mill, thank God, but it could be Downies or Rowanbrae.'

His heart sinking lower as they drew nearer, Doddie became sure, at last – it was Rowanbrae! The thatched roof, tinder dry, had already fallen in, and if Mysie and her son were still inside, there was no hope for them. Pulling on the reins when they reached the fire, he jumped down from the cart and raced towards the house, but was beaten back by the heat and smoke. Followed by Andra, he ran round to the yard, but there was no sign of anyone there, so he made for the back porch.

‘You canna go in there, Doddie,' Andra shouted, dragging him away. ‘Mysie an' Sandy must be at Downies, so get back up on the cart. There's naething we can dae here.'

‘But I'll ha'e to mak' sure Mysie's nae inside.'

‘It's nae use, lad. I'm he'rt sorry for you, but I think we should see if she's wi' the Findlaters. If she's nae …' He stopped and held out his hand to help Doddie up beside him, then smacked the horse's flank with his whip and yelled, ‘Gee up, Star, for a' you're worth.'

As the tired horse trotted off, Doddie held his head between his hands hopelessly, and Rab Duff spoke into his ear. ‘They must be at Downies. They'll be a' right, man.'

Doddie didn't answer. Mysie couldn't have gone to Downies, for if she had, Jake would have known Rowanbrae was burning, and he would have been there fighting the fire.

It was the miller who roused the Findlaters. ‘Is Mysie an' Sandy here?' he shouted, when Jake opened the door.

‘No, they're nae.' The anxiety in Andra's voice made Jake feel sick. ‘Are they nae at hame?'

‘Rowanbrae's burnt doon.'

‘God Almighty! I never ken't naething aboot it. Wait till I get my claes on, an' I'll come back wi' you to gi'e you a hand to look for them.'

Jess had appeared seconds after her husband. ‘What in God's name could ha'e happened to them?'

Casting a surreptitious glance at Doddie, Andra whispered, ‘We thought they'd come here, but … I doot …'

‘Oh, my God!' Jess gasped, clutching at her heart. ‘I canna believe it. Nae Mysie an' Sandy?'

Jake joined the men on the cart in a few minutes, and by the time they arrived back at Rowanbrae, the fire had practically burned itself out. A thick pall of acrid black smoke still hung over the shell of the house. Jake ran round the back, but Doddie took off his jacket and held it over his face as he stepped through the smouldering doorway. Andra kept close behind him, afraid that what they might find would unhinge the young man's mind altogether. But they saw nothing except charred, smoking beams littering the floors of both rooms.

‘Where'll they be?' Doddie shouted, his eyes sweeping wildly from side to side in his distress.

Andra took a firm grip of his shoulder. ‘They must ha'e got oot. They'll be aboot here some place, an' we'll ha'e to look for them, for they'll be in a sorry state, wherever they are.'

As they staggered out, Jake came charging round the side of the house. ‘I found them, Doddie, oot in the nearest park.'

The woman and the boy, their smoke-blackened faces blank, their nightclothes singed, didn't look up as the men raced towards them, but Doddie gathered them into his arms, moaning, ‘Mysie, Mysie, my ain true love. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd lost you baith.'

At last, Jake stepped forward. ‘We'd best tak' them back to my place, Doddie. They're in nae fit state for onything.'

At Downies, Jess tended to their burns and forced them to drink some tea. ‘Go an' plump up oor pillows, Jake, an' spread up the blankets, for they'll ha'e to go in oor bed.'

Andra stood up. ‘Come on, Rab. We're just in the road here.'

Doddie lurched to his feet, too. ‘Thank you for what you did. I'd ha'e went aff my head if you twa hadna been wi' me.'

The miller smiled sadly. ‘If there's onything mair we can dae, you've only to let us ken.'

Rab followed him out and they mounted the cart to go home, their shock at what had happened tempered by the anticipation of being first to break the news to the rest of the community.

After undressing her charges in the other room, Jess slipped one of her nightgowns over Mysie's head and an old shirt of Jake's over Sandy's, then helped them into the wide, high bed, crooning, as she covered them up, ‘You'll be a' right noo, my dearies, just cuddle doon.' When she joined Jake and Doddie, she said, ‘Poor Mysie. I suppose it'll be a lang time afore she can bide at Rowanbrae again?'

Jake heaved a deep sigh. ‘She'll nae be able to bide there ever again, Jess. It's gutted.'

‘But could you nae sort it, you an' Doddie?'

The young man lifted his head slowly. ‘I'll nae be here, Jess, even if it could be sorted, though I dinna think it can.'

Frowning in puzzlement, Jess said, ‘Where'll you be?'

Jake, noticing the other man's discomfiture, stood up hastily. ‘Would you like a dram, Doddie?' Getting no reply, he went to the dresser and filled two small glasses. ‘Here you are, man,' he said, handing one over. ‘Dinna ha'e me drinkin' on my ain.'

Doddie accepted the whisky and said, dully, ‘I enlisted when I was in the toon the day.'

Jake stared at him in amazement. ‘You never said …'

‘I'd never thought aboot it, but I couldna stand biding wi' Mysie when we couldna wed, so I was goin' to ask ane o' the farmers at the Mart if they'd a job for me, but twa recruitin' sergeants fae the Gordons was there. Afore I ken't what I was daein', I'd signed up and ta'en the shillin'.'

A deathly silence fell, both Jake and his wife wondering what this would do to Mysie, but at last Jess said, ‘Maybe it's just as weel, for you've nae place to bide noo.'

His face crumpling suddenly, Doddie burst into noisy sobs, and she rose to comfort him, holding him against her bosom and patting his back until he drew away. ‘I'm sorry, Jess. I've been greetin' like a bairn, but I love them – baith o' them – an' I didna want to hurt her.'

‘At least you had a wee while thegither,' she soothed.

‘Aye, I'll be thankfu' for that for the rest o' my life. Oh, God, I dinna want to leave her, nae noo, nae when she's lost everything she had.'

‘You'll get ower this, Doddie. You'll nae think that this very minute, but you will, an' so'll Mysie an' the bairn. They can bide here till she mak's up her mind what she's goin' to dae, but we've only the one bed, an' …' Jess cleared her throat and moved over to the range. ‘I'll mak' some fresh tea. This pot's been standin' that lang it must be stewed.'

When she had poured out three cups, she said, ‘Do you want me to tell her aboot you enlistin', Doddie?'

‘No, I'll tell her mysel' when she wakens up, but, oh Jess, I wish I'd had mair sense.' He tipped his whisky into his tea.

‘It's ower late noo for regrets. What's done is done, as the sayin' goes. I think we should a' try an' get some rest, an' maybe things winna look so black in the mornin'.'

‘Maybe no'.' He gulped down his laced tea.

Settling back in their chairs, the Findlaters soon dozed off, but Doddie's troubled thoughts kept him awake. He still had to tell Mysie what he had done and why, and it was so painful to think about that he gave up and turned his mind to the fire. How could it have started? A spark from a stick or a bit of peat would have smouldered for a while, and the smell of smoke would surely have wakened Mysie and given her time to dowse it before the whole place went up in flames like that. It must have happened very quickly, for she and her son had been slightly burned before they got out. There was something damned queer about it.

Jess looked up as he moved his feet in agitation. ‘I ken you're upset, Doddie,' she whispered, ‘but things'll work oot for you in the end, I'm sure. Try an' get some sleep.'

He closed his eyes obediently, and was astonished when he woke up some time later and saw Jess standing beside the range stirring a pot. ‘What time is it?' he murmured, drowsily.

‘Near seven already. Jake's awa' to Rowanbrae to see aboot the coo, but Mysie an' Sandy's still sleepin', poor things.'

Having been so concerned about Mysie, Doddie had forgotten about Brownie. ‘You should ha'e wakened me, Jess.'

‘You was dead to the world, an' I hadna the he'rt. Ony road, Jake was wantin' something to dae. He was awfu' annoyed at himsel' for nae kennin' aboot the fire in time. Ah, there you are.' She turned as her husband came in.

‘It's a good thing the wind was blawin' awa' fae the byre last nicht,' Jake observed. ‘Mysie's coo wasna touched, an' I've put her in the park aside oor Betty. I'll leave you to milk her, Jess.'

‘Aye, after we've had oor porridge.'

When they sat down at the table, Doddie said, ‘I'd best tak' the hens here, as weel, Jake, if you dinna mind?'

Jake agreed and scratched his head. ‘There's a puckle things lyin' aboot ootside, an' if we asked Andra for a lend o' his cart, we could shift a'thing here that's ony use. I'll see to them till you come hame fae the war.'

‘Aye, that's the very thing,' Jess chipped in, ‘for Mysie'll nae ha'e nae place to put them.'

At that moment, Mysie came through from the other room, her eyes dull and sunken, her pinched face still pink with scorch marks, and Doddie jumped up. ‘How are you feelin', lass?'

‘Oh, Doddie,' she burst out, ‘I dinna ken how the fire started, but I'd ha'e been burned alive in my bed if it hadna been for Sandy. He must ha'e smelt it and shouted at me, but we'd an awfu' job gettin' oot. A'thing was blazin' roon' aboot us.'

Feeling that his heart was being compressed in a vice, he held her gently in his arms. ‘Thank God you're a' right.'

Jess, whose own heart felt constricted with emotion, was glad when Sandy came through, and filled a bowl for him. ‘Here's some porridge,' she said, rather brusquely, brushing her eyes with her hand. ‘Sit doon an' sup it afore it's cauld.'

Sandy sat down but made no attempt to eat, and realising how shaken he must be, she shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Come oot wi' me to gather the eggs, my loon, an' Jake, you've your work to dae.'

Aware that she had left them to talk in private, Doddie said, ‘Mysie, I've something to tell you.'

His grave expression alarmed her. ‘What is it, Doddie?'

‘Weel, it's like this … oh, Mysie, I canna think o' a easy way to tell you. I enlisted in the Gordons yesterday when I was in the toon.' Her stunned face made him hurry on. ‘I just couldna go on like we were, lass. I wanted you to be my wife, an' as lang as we dinna ken where Jeems is, we can never be wed. I've to report at the Barracks on Wednesday, but I'll come an' see you when I get leave, an' when the war's finished, we'll go right awa' fae Burnlea an' tak' a croft some place where folk dinna ken us, an' they'll think we're man an' wife.'

Still slightly in shock, Mysie said nothing for a minute. If she told Doddie now that Jeems was dead, would he tell her the truth? Would he admit to having killed him? If it hadn't been him, though, he would want to know how Jeems died, why they had been fighting, how she had come to be carrying a bairn that wasn't her husband's. Oh, God, what a mess her life was, and she couldn't even be sure of Doddie. The only thing she was sure of was that she loved him, no matter what. At last, she looked at him longingly. ‘Oh, I wish we
could
go right awa' fae Burnlea an' live as man an' wife.'