The Road to Rowanbrae (14 page)

Fully half a minute elapsed before Jake said, ‘Aye, I mind noo. There
was
twa knives! I flung them baith doon the quarry the next day, when I was at the moss cuttin' peat. We was that worked up that nicht, we werena thinkin' straight.'

They looked at each other for a moment, then Jess whispered, ‘So there
was
somebody else there.'

Jake rubbed his nose. ‘I suppose Mysie
could
ha'e picked up the other knife? The drawer was lyin' on the floor.'

‘An' her near senseless wi' what Jeems was daein' to her? No, Jake, that'll nae haud water. It was somebody else, an' I'm sure it wasna Doddie.'

‘Och, Jess. Let it be. It was a sorry business fae start to finish, but it's a' ower, an' though we'd a hand in it, we did what we thought was best at the time. There's nae good'll come o' bringin' it a' up again.'

Sandy had hardly uttered a word since the fire, and Mysie was quite worried about him. He was taking too long to get over it, and maybe she had done wrong keeping him off school. She broached the subject to Jess on Tuesday afternoon. ‘What do you think? He's been wanderin' aboot lookin' lost. Would he be better among the other bairns?'

‘It might tak' his mind aff it, poor wee lambie. Sometimes you need to be cruel to be kind. An' he's got the claes Belle Duff sent alang, so you dinna need to worry aboot that.'

When Sandy was told that he would have to go back to school the next morning, there was no adverse reaction – no reaction at all – so, on Wednesday, Mysie supervised him washing and dressing, then stood at the door watching as he walked slowly along the road, his head down, his hands in his pockets. ‘I hope he'll be a' right,' she said, when she went back into the kitchen. ‘He looks that miserable.'

About half an hour later, Jess having made herself scarce, Mysie clung desperately to Doddie when he came to say goodbye. ‘Dinna greet, lass,' he murmured, against her face. ‘I'll write to you, an' I'll be back when I get leave.'

‘Oh, I'll miss you sair,' she sobbed.

‘I'll be thinkin' aboot you every minute I'm awa'.'

His parting kiss was short and rough, as if he couldn't trust himself to linger over it, then he tore himself away from her and strode through the door. She longed to run out after him, to watch him going along the road, too, but he had made her promise to stay inside, so she sat down with her head bowed until Jess came in again. ‘He's awa',' she murmured, brokenly.

‘Aye, I saw him. Listen, Mysie, Jake's needin' me to haud some nettin' wire till he nails it to the posts o' the palin', an' I'll nae ha'e time to make ony butter, so would you feel up to daein' it for me?'

‘Aye, I'll easy manage that.'

Mysie knew that Jess was keeping her occupied to stop her brooding, and was grateful to her for trying, but her brain was still active as she turned the handle of the wooden churn. She couldn't expect the Findlaters to keep her and her son for much longer, but she had nowhere else to go. If she didn't have Sandy, it wouldn't be so bad, but the poor bairn needed a home – he'd been through an awful lot lately – and how could she provide that? Maybe Jess would be willing to keep him to let her go into service? It seemed to be the only solution and she would sound Jess out later.

She had just returned to the kitchen when the laird's brougham drew up outside and she flew to answer the door. Her curiosity became astonishment when the driver handed over an envelope addressed to her. ‘I've to wait for an answer,' he said, as Jess ran round the side of the house to see what was going on.

Opening the letter, Mysie read it and handed it to her friend in a flurry of excitement. ‘It's like the answer to a prayer, but are you willin' to keep Sandy if I get the job?'

‘Wait till I read it, till I see what you're speakin' aboot.' In less than a minute, Jess was just as excited as Mysie. ‘It's providence, that's what it is. Aye, me an' Jake'll keep Sandy, so tell the man the answer's yes.'

Jake joined them as the carriage moved away, and had to be told the good news. ‘The laird's wife's asked Mysie to go an' see her aboot a job,' Jess began.

Mysie took up the explanation. ‘She's needin' a cook, an' she kens Rowanbrae's burnt doon, an …'

‘She's to go to the Big Hoose the morn at ten,' Jess butted in, 'an' if Mrs Phillip likes her she'll get the job.'

Jake took the letter to find out for himself, holding it well away from him because his spectacles were sitting inside on the dresser. ‘It's what it says, right enough.'

Jess laughed with delight. ‘You'll nae be far awa', Mysie, an' it's nae as though you hadna been in service afore.'

‘I was only a scullerymaid when I was at Forton Hoose, an' that's near ten year ago. Forbye, I'm nae that sure if I could dae the kind o' cookin' the gentry would be expectin'.'

Jess gave a loud laugh. ‘Aye, could you, for they like plain fare, an' it just couldna ha'e worked oot better. Sandy'll bide wi' me an' Jake, an' you can come an' see him on your days aff.'

The thought of only seeing her son occasionally made Mysie realise with a shock how fond of him she had become since Jamie died. It would be best not to tell him anything yet, for the laird's wife might not think she was suitable for the cook's job, and he would be all upset for nothing.

Unable to sleep for worrying about the interview, Mysie was ready long before the carriage came to collect her next day, but the minute she saw Mrs Phillip, tall and matronly, with a large white apron on and her hair protected by a cotton cap, she was sure that her worries had been for nothing.

The woman smiled at her kindly. ‘I'm so glad you could come, Mrs Duncan. I was at my wits' end, but when I learned about your misfortune, I thought that we could do each other a good turn. I need a cook, you need a home, and my husband agreed that I should write to you and offer you the position.'

‘I've never daen ony fancy cookin',' Mysie said, shyly.

‘I don't expect any fancy cooking, as long as it is palatable. My last cook was not very satisfactory, but I put up with her to save myself the trouble of finding someone else. However, she took umbrage at me for criticising her soup, and left on Saturday without giving me notice. I've been doing the cooking myself since. I quite enjoy it, but Mr Phillip insists that I stop. I am sure that you will be an improvement on Mag, and I hope that you will be happy with your room. There is a double bed, but you will not mind your son sleeping with you?'

‘Oh! You ken't aboot Sandy? I thought I'd ha'e to leave him wi' the Findlaters.'

‘Not unless you want to. He is very welcome here.'

‘Oh, thank you! I'm sure he'll be pleased aboot that.'

‘Good. Now, when can you start work?'

‘I'll ha'e to wait till Sandy comes hame fae the school, but we could come back the nicht.'

Beaming, Mrs Phillip said, ‘Splendid! Maitland will take you back to Downies, and call for you again at … six? Will that give you time to pack all your clothes?'

‘I've naething to pack, Mrs Phillip, for I lost a'thing in the fire. This is Jess Findlater's auld blouse an' skirt I've got on, an' Sandy's been wearin' things folk gi'ed him.'

‘I'm sorry, I should have realised. I will look out some of my old clothes for you. They will be far too big, but you can take them in, and they will do until you can buy some of your own. How old is your son?'

‘Sandy's eight.'

‘Some of the things my Bobby has outgrown may fit him then. Bobby is nine – he's a weekly boarder at a school in Aberdeen – and Sandy may be able to keep him out of mischief during the weekends and the school holidays.'

Mysie's heart sank, but it was better to be frank. ‘I'm nae so sure aboot that, for Sandy can be a little de'il himsel'.'

‘In that case,' Mrs Phillip said, wryly, ‘we will have to keep our eyes on them. Now, off you go with Maitland, and when you come back at night, Meggie will show you your room.'

On being told the arrangements, Jess said, ‘I'm right pleased Sandy'll be wi' you, nae that I wasna wantin' him here, but he needs his ain mother, especially just noo.'

When he came home from school, Sandy went round the back to speak to Jake first, and came into the house minutes later, more animated than he had been for some time. ‘Is it true, Mam? Jake says we're to be bidin' at the Big Hoose?'

‘Aye, I'm to be cook to Mrs Phillip.'

Mysie did her best to control her son's excitement until six o'clock, but she didn't even attempt to make him do his home lessons. When they were leaving, Jess and Jake went out to see them off, and Mysie's eyes filled with tears as she waved to them through the rear window of the carriage.

Sandy turned to her as she sniffed. ‘What are you greetin' for, Mam? Do you nae want to go?'

‘I was just bein' daft, my loon. We'll ha'e oor ain room, just the twa o' us, an' we'll be happy there, I'm sure.'

Meggie, the fourteen-year-old daughter of Belle and Rab Duff, let them in by the servants' entrance, and on the way up the back stairs, she said, ‘Mrs Phillip's good to work for, Mysie. Mag, her that was the cook afore you, didna like her, but that was only through the mistress complainin' aboot her cookin'.'

‘I hope she doesna complain aboot mine,' Mysie muttered.

‘I dinna ken what made Mag ever think she could cook, for even the very dog wouldna eat the leave-owers.'

Sandy's eyes brightened further. ‘What kind o' a dog?'

‘He's a saint something, a great muckle soft lump. Brutus, his name is, but onything less like a brute you couldna find.'

Mysie thought that she had better issue a caution. ‘You're nae to start tormentin' it, mind, Sandy.'

Having reached the top, Meggie swept a pointing finger round the landing. ‘That's my room, I'm your kitchen-maid, that ane's Chrissie an' Janey's, they're first an' second hoosemaids, an' this ane's yours.' She flung the door open and went across to light the lamp from her candle. ‘It's a lot bigger than mine.' As she turned to go, she said, ‘Oh, an' dinner's at seven, but the mistress made it earlier on an' I've just to put it in the oven for half an ‘oor, then serve it. Come doon an' get yours when you're ready.'

‘Jess Findlater gi'ed us oor supper,' Mysie told her, ‘but I'll come doon an' help you, if you want.'

‘The mistress says you've nae to start work till the morn, but you can come doon an' sit in the kitchen if you like. It's a lot warmer there than it is up here.'

Mysie considered for a moment. ‘I think we'll bide up here for a while till we get oor breath back.' She waited until the girl shut the door, then said, ‘Sandy, get your home lessons daen, or Mr Meldrum'll be ragin' you the morn.'

‘Ach, Mam, I've only six sums, an' they're that easy I could dae them standin' on my head.'

‘You'll dae them better sittin' on your behind,' she told him, relieved that some of his spirit had returned.

While her son worked out the answers to his sums on top of the square wooden trunk under the skylight, Mysie sat down on the bed to take stock of her surroundings. The room was much larger than the kitchen at Rowanbrae, and had a cupboard for hanging clothes, a chest of drawers with an oval cheval mirror on top, as well as a ewer and basin and the lamp Meggie had lit. There was also a straight-backed, uncushioned chair at each side of the bed, which, she was pleased to find, had a horsehair mattress. It was much firmer than the lumpy chaff bag she'd been used to, and wouldn't have to be filled every year to keep it fresh.

It was all fairly spartan, Mysie mused, but it was home to her and Sandy now – at least, until Doddie came back from the war to take them away.

Chapter Thirteen

1915

Unsure of her capabilities as cook, Mysie had been even more apprehensive on her first morning when her employer handed her a menu for the day. ‘Oh,' she gasped, ‘I've nae idea what half o' that means. I've hardly never cooked meat, just a rabbit or a hen whiles, an' never nae fancy puddin's.'

Mrs Phillip had laughed. ‘I thought as much, so I will give you an old recipe book of my mother's. I was using it myself before you came, and it is easy to follow. I have ordered for today and tomorrow, and when the butcher delivers – the van comes from Inverurie – you can order for the weekend. Look through the book and choose whatever you think is easiest for you – there is nothing that either my husband or I dislike.'

Mysie had opened the book in trepidation, and, though the recipes had looked simple, she was still surprised when the laird's wife congratulated her after luncheon, as she called it.

Now, three months later, she scarcely consulted the book at all, and Mrs Phillip seemed to be satisfied with everything she made, especially if she improvised a little, or experimented, as she had taken to doing once she felt confident. She didn't tell Doddie, when she wrote, about the meals she cooked. His letters were brief since he'd been sent over to France, and she could imagine the awful hardships he had to face.

Anyway, she had plenty to tell him – the things Sandy said, the gossip she heard from Jess on her days off, the tidbits Meggie Duff came out with after she had been home. Mysie had grown fond of her little kitchenmaid, though she couldn't help laughing at her sometimes. Meggie's fine, fair hair was always escaping from her cap, no matter how often she pushed it back; her aprons were for ever coming undone and flapping in front of her. She was still a child at heart, even at fourteen.

‘Is Doddie your lad noo Jeems is awa'?' she'd asked when his first letter arrived addressed care of Burnlea House, and had been so interested in every one that Mysie had started reading bits of them out loud. It was good to have someone to confide in, someone who didn't know the truth about her, and she even forgot herself, sometimes, that Jeems hadn't just walked out.

The two housemaids – Janey Paterson, tall and ungainly, and Chrissie Grant, a dainty wee thing – were often to be found giggling in corners about the lads Chrissie met at the dances she cycled to, and the coachman – Maitland, who was also the handyman and whose Christian name Mysie had never heard – was too busy teasing them to pay much attention to the cook and the kitchenmaid, which suited them fine. There was only one other person on the staff – McGregor, the gamekeeper-gardener, a quiet old man who didn't bother anybody.

Sandy had been very good since they'd come here in February, pushing three-year-old Beatrice carefully on her swing when he came home from school, or taking Brutus, the St Bernard, out for long walks. At the table, his manners were impeccable; no speaking with his mouth full, no gobbling as if there would be no tomorrow. Bobby Phillip, at a private school in Aberdeen, just came home at the weekends, and he and Sandy had taken to each other from the first. They played football, they stalked imaginary wild animals in the gardens, they amused themselves and were no trouble, even in the Easter holidays. During the next school break, they spent each long summer day together, and Mysie only saw her son at mealtimes, sometimes not even then. But it was too good to last, as she found out.

‘Oh, I was black affronted,' she told Jess, the next time she went to see her. ‘They'd eaten maist o' the strawberries in the garden, an' they were baith sick.'

‘Served them right,' said Jess. ‘What did Mrs Phillip say?'

‘She gi'ed Bobby a good wallopin'.'

‘I didna think the gentry would wallop their bairns.'

‘She took him ower her knee an' laid into him, so I did the same to Sandy, an' they were baith howlin'.'

‘So that'll ha'e stopped their tricks?'

Mysie grimaced. ‘No, it didna stop them. The very next day, they swung wee Beatrice that high on her swing,
she
was sick when she got aff. But the mistress blamed Bobby for that an' sent him to his bed. I gi'ed Sandy the edge o' my tongue, though, for he could ha'e stopped him.'

‘You didna bring him wi' you the day?'

‘I was goin' to, but Mr Phillip was takin' Beatrice an' Bobby to the beach at Aberdeen, an' he said Sandy could go wi' them. I just hope he behaves himsel'.'

Jess leaned forward. ‘What's he like, the laird? I've never seen him up close.'

‘I dinna see muckle o' him, but he's real nice. He's fatter than I thought he'd be, an' he's aboot the same height as her, an' you can tell he loves her. It's nae surprisin', though, for her face minds me on a picture o' Helen o' Troy. I once saw.'

Mysie's sigh made Jess feel quite tender towards her. ‘Ha'e you heard fae Doddie lately?'

‘I'd a letter last week, but I wish he could get hame. The only thing is, he'll nae ha'e nae place to bide, an' I'll be tied up at the Big Hoose, so he'll likely go to Fyvie to his father.'

Jess frowned. ‘Write an' tell him he can sleep here. We've still got that auld mattress Andra White gi'ed us.'

‘That's good o' you, Jess. I'll tell him next time I write.'

‘Speakin' aboot Andra, his Drew's enlisted, as weel. Poor Pattie, she's enough on her plate wi' Nessie withoot that. D'you ken what that daft bitch did? She wandered awa' one day an' fell in wi' a sodger fae the camp at Cairndoon, an' you ken what she's like for men, so she's in the family way noo. The only thing she can tell them is it was a man wi' a kilt. God, they're a' kilters at Cairndoon.'

‘Poor Nessie,' Mysie murmured.

Jess gave her a calculating look. ‘She's just a penny to the shillin', of coorse, but did you nae ken aboot her an' Jeems?'

Mysie didn't want to think about Jeems, but she said, ‘Aye, I ken't, an' she was welcome to him.'

‘Aye, weel, but it surprises me she hasna been catched afore, for I'm sure she's had near a' the men roon' here at her.'

‘Even Jake?' Mysie couldn't resist it.

‘Like enough. What man would say no if a wumman walked up to him wi' her skirts lifted up? That's what Nessie does, you ken, an' her whiles wi' nae bloomers on.'

Mysie laughed. ‘Och, Jess, you're bletherin'.'

‘It's true, as sure as I'm sittin' here, an' she's a bonnie enough quine, though she's soft in the head.'

Mysie left soon afterwards, remembering, as she cycled past the empty shell of Rowanbrae, how happy she and Doddie had been there, and when she came to the mill, she wondered if Nessie had tried to tempt Doddie when he'd slept there before he went away. It was too awful to contemplate and she was glad when she met Jean and Eck Petrie, on their way home from a walk.

‘Hey, Mysie!' Jean shouted. ‘You've time to speak a minute?'

‘Just a wee minute.' She stopped and dismounted.

‘How are you likin' being' a cook?'

‘Fine.'

‘Ony word o' Doddie comin' hame?'

‘Nae yet.'

‘Jess'll ha'e tell't you aboot Nessie White? It's a good job Jeems is awa', or we'd ha'e been thinkin' he was the father.'

Mrs Petrie's eyes were glinting with the satisfaction she got from casting slurs, and Mysie couldn't help laughing. ‘I ken't aboot her an' Jeems, Jean, an' I dinna suppose you refused her either, eh, Eck?' It came out before she thought and there was a brief moment of shock all round.

‘No, Mysie,' Eck said, quietly. ‘A man doesna refuse what's cocked up in front o' him, especially when his ain wife keeps him oot o' her bed.'

Mysie had forgotten that, and was so ashamed of what she'd said that she cycled off without another word, but heard Jean loudly berating her husband. ‘Did you need to tell her that, Eck Petrie? An' admittin' you took that daftie? I'll never be able to look her in the …' The rest was lost.

Mysie reflected guiltily that she'd got her own back on the woman for all the nasty things she'd said in the past, but it didn't make her feel good. When she got back, she put Meggie's bicycle in the shed and went to make sure that the girl hadn't let the stew burn. ‘Is Mr Phillip an' the bairns hame yet?' she asked, and was relieved to learn that they weren't.

When Sandy ran in ten minutes later, he chattered on about what Mr Phillip had said, what Mr Phillip had given them in the way of sweets, what Mr Phillip had let them have turns on at the carnival, and Mysie listened with only half an ear as she filled plates for both upstairs and downstairs. He only stopped speaking when he sat down to eat, and she seized the chance to ask, ‘Did you behave yoursel'?'

‘Mr Phillip said I behaved better than Bobby, Mam.'

‘As lang as you didna disgrace me. Noo, it's up that stair to your bed the minute you've finished your supper.'

‘It's a man's hand he's needin',' she confided to Meggie while they were tidying up. ‘He was good as gold wi' Mr Phillip, an' once Doddie's oot o' the Gordons he'll keep him in aboot.'

*

When Meggie returned from visiting her parents the following week, she said, ‘Denny Petrie's enlisted, an' Ma says Jean's goin' aboot tellin' folk that him an' Drew White are the only real men in Burnlea. Oor Robbie's wantin' to go, but Da'll nae let him, for he says he's mair needed at hame.'

Doddie had been first to enlist, Mysie thought, sadly, but after what she had said to Eck she wasn't surprised that Jean Petrie had slighted him by not mentioning him, although it was really her that the besom was trying to slight.

Bobby Phillip and Sandy did nothing really outrageous before the summer holidays were over – just irritating things, like tearing their clothes climbing trees, and throwing pails of water over each other when it was unbearably hot. The only time Mysie had been really angry was when Bobby found a tin of whitewash – Maitland had forgotten to put it out of harm's way after he'd been using it – and painted Sandy from head to foot. Meggie had been nearly scared out of her wits when the white apparition had appeared at the back door, but Mysie took one look at the naked boy and gave him a walloping he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

‘It wasna my blame,' he sobbed, as she scrubbed him until his skin was almost raw.

‘Naething's never your blame,' she scolded, but was thankful that he'd had the sense to take his clothes off first. He was almost back to normal again, although there were times when he was very quiet, perhaps brooding over the old days and wondering what had happened to his father. He never asked any questions about Jeems, though, nor made any mention of the fire, and it usually wasn't long before he came out of his queer mood.

When the schools resumed, the whole household heaved a sigh of relief, but the folk in the Burnlea area had other things to trouble them. Every week, Mysie learned of another family's son leaving, and several of the single farm servants, from both Fingask and Waterton, felt the urge to go and fight for their country. As Jess said, ‘The place is emptyin' quicker than the school at four o'clock.' Maitland, twenty-five and also single, felt obliged to tell everyone that he had flat feet and the army wouldn't want him anyway, so he needn't bother offering his services. Chrissie, despondent at losing so many of her lads, found admirers galore at Cairndoon camp, and discovered, to her delight, that they were more fun than the locals.

Doddie's letters were like gold to Mysie, and just as scarce, but she wrote to him faithfully each week, and life went on in the usual way – hard work and little leisure.

When Mrs Phillip came into the kitchen one afternoon at the beginning of December 1915, Mysie wondered if Sandy had done something he shouldn't, but it was nothing to do with Sandy.

‘My brother will be home for Christmas,' her employer smiled, ‘so I thought I should give a small dinner party, just family. My mother died some time ago, but I will invite my father and his sister Beatrice, as well as my brother, also Mr Phillip's parents and his sister and her husband. That will make nine adults, and the children.'

‘How mony children, Ma'am?' Mysie asked, trembling.

‘Just our two,' Mrs Phillip smiled. ‘Don't worry about it, Mrs Duncan. Just traditional Christmas fare, turkey and all the trimmings, and plum pudding, of course.'

Mysie had no idea what the ‘usual trimmings' were, but nodded wisely. There was a section headed ‘Special Occasions' in the old recipe book although she'd never looked at it, but provided that it was as simple as the rest of the book, it should be easy enough to follow, and she had three weeks to study it.

When next she went to Downies, she told Jess all about the dinner. ‘The Christmas menu in the recipe book says cream of asparagus soup to start wi', but I'm goin' to gi'e them broth, for it's the only thing to keep the cauld oot. Then it says roast turkey an' cranberry sauce, though that's a funny thing to be eatin' wi' turkey, an' brussel sprouts an' carrots an' peas, an' roast tatties an' chestnut stuffin'.'

‘Chestnut stuffin'?' Jess seemed surprised.

‘I wouldna fancy it mysel' an' I thought, if I made skirlie an' said it was oatmeal stuffin', it would be a change for them. I've made the puddin' already, for it says it should be kept for twa month, but it would be mouldy by that time, an' Mrs Phillip didna tell me early enough, ony road. I've nae idea what it'll taste like, for I'd to put brandy in, an' I've to pour mair brandy ower it when it's served, an' set a match to it. It sounds queer, but that's what it says in the book. An' I've still to mak' the Christmas pies for ha'ein' wi' their coffee.'

‘You wouldna think there was a war on,' Jess observed, having waited patiently to tell her piece of news. ‘Drew White's been wounded, an' Nessie's bairn died, though that's maybe a good thing. Pattie says she goes aboot the hoose lookin' for it, an' it wouldna surprise me if she lost the rest o' her wits, noo. She'll nae be so ready to let a man tak' her again, though I doot if she kens that's how the bairn got in her to start wi'.'