The Road to Rowanbrae (18 page)

He was talking now as if he had forgotten about Mysie, his eyes dark with horrific memories. ‘The Bosche was puttin' up awfu' barrages. I've seen some reports in the papers since I come hame that said we could ha'e beaten them if the good weather had kept up, but we hadna the ammunition. The rain an' sleet turned a'thing into mud – naething but mud as far as you could see, an' great muckle shell holes. Of course, the only time you could see them in the dark, was when the Very lights went up, or mair shells burst.'

Mysie said nothing – what was there to say? Alick continued. ‘The snaw was even worse, the cauld gettin' right into your bones. Twa o' the officers came roon' one day, in their fine uniforms straight fae tailors in London, an' when a lad complains it was cauld, one o' the officers says, “Get off your jackets, men, and give the horses a rub down, that will keep you warm.” Weel, we was near tellin' them to tak' aff their ain jackets, but you canna speak back to an officer, or you'd be put on a charge. Then we were marched to Bourlon Wood, an' once we were dug in, the artillery opened fire, an' so did the enemy's. We had three days o' that, an' on the last day, me an' Doddie was thegither as usual. There was a bit o' a lull, an' one minute, he was speaking aboot you, an' the next minute he was blawn to bits.'

‘Oh!' Mysie's agonised cry recalled her presence to him, and he looked at her anxiously. ‘God, lass, I'm sorry. I came to br'ak it to you gently, an' I was that carried awa' I've made things worse. Oh, I'm sorry!'

She fought back the tears. ‘Dinna be sorry. I was wantin' to ken how he was killed.'

‘He didna feel onything – it happened ower quick. At the end o' that day – I'll never forget the date, 25th November 1917 – when they tallied up the casualties, there was 55 officers and men killed, 253 wounded an' 78 missin'.'

They sat silently, Alick Slessor remembering the horrors of the small wood outside Ypres and the comrades who had fallen, Mysie remembering Doddie as he had been in August when he was home.

At last the young man looked up. ‘I'd better be goin'.'

‘Will you nae wait for a cup o' tea? Meggie'll nae tak' a minute to mak' ane.'

‘No, thank you. It was snawin' real heavy when I came in, an' I dinna want to be gettin' lost in a drift.'

Mysie grasped his outstretched hand. ‘You've a few mile to go, though, will you manage a' right?'

‘My father let me tak' his sledge, an' his horse is weel used to the deep snaw.'

‘It was awfu' good o' you to come an' tell me aboot Doddie.'

He gave her hand a firm squeeze as he went out, the telling having been as much of an ordeal for him as it had been for her. When Meggie came through, eager to hear what he'd had to say, Mysie told her as much as she could remember and they sat for a few minutes trying to imagine what it had been like for the men who had fought in that village in Belgium.

At last, the kitchenmaid said, ‘Does it nae mak' you feel worse, kennin' how Doddie was killed?'

Mysie wiped her eyes, then gave a contented sigh. ‘No, I dinna feel worse, Meggie. I sometimes used to wish the army had sent his body back, so I could ha'e buried it, but I see noo they couldna, an' I feel a lot better for kennin' he died thinkin' aboot me.'

P
ART
T
WO

Chapter Seventeen

The little maid who opened the door at Ashley Road looked so timid that Mysie was sure Mrs Phillip's aunt must be a proper tartar, but she gave her name, and added, ‘I'm expected.'

Sandy, very quiet since he confessed about the fire, kept close to her as they were taken along the hall and shown into a gloomy room crammed with large furniture and ornaments. At the far side, in a huge chair which practically hid her from sight, an old lady was writing at a beautiful mahogany bureau, but she swivelled round at their entrance.

Waiting for her new employer to speak, Mysie took stock of her. Her yellowing-white hair, very sparse, was drawn severely back from a long angular face, her rather deep-set eyes were a piercing grey and her thin, blue-veined hand, spotted with the brown pigment of advanced age, still held her pen. ‘So! You're Mrs Duncan?' she said, at last.

The deep voice came as a surprise. ‘Aye, Miss Wallace.'

‘You don't look very sturdy, but Margaret, my niece, assured me that you were quite wiry.'

‘I'm f-fit for ony k-kind o' hoosework,' Mysie stammered.

‘As long as you keep the house clean, I shall be happy. The maid, Gladys, will help with that, but you will have to attend to the ordering of provisions, the cooking, and to me.' The cold eyes turned to the boy. ‘This is your son?'

‘Aye, Sandy. He's new eleven, an' he sleeps wi' me, so as lang as there's a double bed …'

‘An eleven-year-old cannot sleep with his mother! It is most indecent, and I will not have indecency in my home.'

‘I'm sorry … I thought it would save …'

‘Two rooms have been made ready for you on the top floor, so there is no more to be said.' The old lady laid down her pen to press a bell on the wall behind her, and when the maid ran in, she said, ‘Show … Sandy up to his room, Gladys. I wish to talk privately to his mother.'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

The door had scarcely closed when Miss Wallace turned her penetrating gaze on Mysie again. ‘I will make this clear from the start – I am prepared to put up with your son, provided that he is quiet.'

‘I'll mak' sure he is. He's nae really a bad loon …'

The thin lips tightened. ‘And I must insist that both you and he will learn to talk the King's English.'

Mysie felt indignant. ‘My mother aye tell't us to keep a good Scots tongue in oor heads, and I've aye spoke like this, though I was learned English at the school.'

The lowering brows descended even farther. ‘You were
taught
English, although it certainly does not sound like it, but even if you have always
spoken
in that ridiculous dialect, you will do so no longer, not in front of me, at least. Now, my niece told me that you …' she coughed discreetly ‘… that you are with child. I hope that you are not one of those sickly creatures who will take to her bed at the least excuse and be fit for nothing for weeks?'

‘I've had twa …
two
loons …
sons
already, though Jamie died, an' I worked right up to the day they were born.'

‘And afterwards?' There was a hint of amusement in the old lady's eyes now, but Mysie was too anxious to recognise it.

‘I was back on my feet the next day.'

‘I am pleased to hear it. I had hoped for someone older, but Margaret has great confidence in your ability, and I trust her judgement. Now that we understand each other, Mrs Duncan – I will call you that meantime, it is more fitting in view of your condition – I believe that you will suit me very well.'

‘Thank you, Miss Wallace.' Mysie turned and went out into the hall, where Gladys was waiting to show her up to her room.

‘That's Sandy's room,' the maid told her, pointing before she ran down the stairs again.

Mysie went into her room to lay down the valise Mrs Phillip had given her for carrying their clothes, then opened the next door. ‘Oh, this is a nice room,' she exclaimed, hoping to cheer Sandy up, because he was sitting rigidly on his bed, his mouth drooping and his eyes mournful. ‘Do you like it?'

‘I dinna like
her
,' he mumbled, pulling a face. ‘Do we ha'e to bide here, Mam?'

‘Aye, I'm sorry, my loon, but we'll ha'e to.' Mysie caught herself. She was speaking in the Doric again. ‘Sandy,' she said, apologetically, ‘Miss Wallace wants us to speak English, like in your school books.'

‘Will I ha'e to go to a new school?'

‘Yes, but I'll need to ask her about it, for there's lots o' schools in Aberdeen. Now, come through and I'll give you your claes … clothes, but watch and not crease them when you're laying them by in the drawers. It was good o' Mrs Phillip to give you what her Bobby had grown out of.'

‘But I'm as big as him,' Sandy pointed out, as he followed her, ‘so they'll be ower little for me as weel.'

‘They're all you've got.' She emptied the bag on her own bed and separated his clothes from hers. ‘There you go now, and try to speak right in front of Miss Wallace, for I wouldn't want to cross her. She could put us out.'

‘Did Mrs Phillip put us oot?'

‘No … aye. Oh, Sandy, I canna explain. Something happened an' we had to leave.'

‘But what …?'

‘Stop askin' questions, there's a good loon, and go and put your things past. I'll be going down the stairs when I've laid mine away, but I want you to bide up here till I tell you.' He looked at her so forlornly as he went out that she wished with all her heart that things had been different.

When all her own clothes were laid away tidily, Mysie went downstairs, knocked on the sitting-room door and opened it. ‘Excuse me, Miss Wallace, but what school will Sandy go to?'

The old lady frowned as she looked up from the letter she was still writing. ‘Ashley Road School. It's only a little bit along the street, on the opposite side. You may take your son there while I am having my nap after lunch, and the headmaster will probably tell him to begin on Monday, so he will have the weekend to acclimatise himself to his new surroundings.'

‘Thank you, Miss Wallace. Er … what do you want me to cook for your luncheon?'

‘Luncheon?' The word rang out sarcastically. ‘My niece may have fancy ideas nowadays, but she was brought up, as I was, to say “lunch”. My father, her grandfather, worked up from the bottom to his managerial position, and he called it “dinner” to the end of his days, although my mother constantly corrected him. Another thing, I know Margaret has “dinner” at seven, but I prefer to have “tea” at five.'

Mysie laughed, feeling easier with her now. ‘We used to call that “supper”, and we had “dinner” in the middle of the day, but what about today's lunch?'

‘Gladys will tell you what is in the larder. I will give you a month's housekeeping allowance at a time, and I expect you to account for every penny. Off you go, because I have lunch at one, but I would like to talk to Sandy on his own.'

Her heart sinking, Mysie ran up to fetch him. ‘An' mind an' speak English to her,' she warned him. Sandy was noncommittal when he came into the kitchen later, so she asked, ‘What did she say to you?'

‘She just wanted to get to ken me, that's a'.'

‘Did you mind an' speak right?'

‘She never said I wasna speakin' right.'

As Miss Wallace had foreseen, when Mysie took Sandy along to Ashley Road School that afternoon, the headmaster told him to start on Monday. ‘What do you think?' she asked, while they were walking back to the house. ‘Will you like it?'

‘It's awfu' big.'

‘They're a' big schools in Aberdeen, but your teacher looked real nice. It was good o' the domin … headmaster to show you the class you'd be in.'

‘Aye.' He didn't sound too enthusiastic.

Gladys said she went home at seven every evening, so Mysie and her son sat by the kitchen fire until eight o'clock, when she made him go to bed. Alone, she thought of Doddie, of the months they had lived together at Rowanbrae, of the hours he had been with her when he was on leave. She would never be a whole woman again without him. The cruelty of fate made her weep, quietly and hopelessly.

When she recovered, she rose and went over to the sink to wash her face. Miss Wallace rang at nine. ‘Help me upstairs,' she ordered, when Mysie went through. ‘My legs are so stiff that I can't manage on my own. Is Sandy in bed? I like him, you know. He will put life into the house.'

As long as he behaves himself, Mysie thought, but took the old lady's arm as they mounted the stairs. ‘Will I bring up a cup of cocoa or something to you?'

‘In about fifteen minutes. I usually read for a little.'

After she had seen Miss Wallace settled, Mysie went to bed herself. She still wasn't sure if she would like working here, but she had burned her boats now.

On the next day, Saturday, Mysie took Sandy with her to buy meat and groceries for the weekend, carefully recording each purchase in the little book the previous housekeeper had used. ‘Miss Wallace likes you,' she told her son when the shopping was over. ‘What did you say to her?'

‘Ach, Mam, I canna mind noo, but she was laughin' whiles, an' she's nae so bad when you get to ken her.'

Mysie left it at that. As long as the old lady could laugh at what he said, everything would be all right.

Everything wasn't all right, however. When Sandy came home from school on Monday afternoon, he had a thick lip and a rip in his jacket. ‘You've been fightin'!' Mysie accused. ‘Oh, Sandy, can you nae behave yoursel' at a'?'

‘The other loons waited in the playground for me, an' they was laughin' at me for the way I speak, so I thumped ane an' him an' some o' the other anes turned on me.'

‘Get your face washed and I'll put some ointment on.' Mysie didn't know whether to be angry with him or glad that he had stood up for himself. ‘And give me your jacket so I can mend it afore Miss Wallace sees the state you're in, for she said she wanted to see you when you came home from the school.'

He was with the old lady for about fifteen minutes, and came back looking quite pleased with himself. ‘She laughed when I tell't … told her about the fight, an' she said the only way to get the better o' them was to speak the same as them.'

‘You'll maybe take a telling from her then,' Mysie snapped.

‘It's funny, though,' he observed, as he sat down. ‘Bobby Phillip never laughed at me, an' he spoke like them.'

‘Bobby Phillip and you were a pair, and you'll need to behave yourself better here.' He would miss Bobby in the holidays, Mysie mused, but maybe he would make a friend at school.

‘Miss Wallace is wantin' to help me wi' my home lessons. She says she was clever when she was at the school, an' she near died laughin' when I said I didna ken schools was invented as lang ago as when she was young.'

Mysie was appalled. ‘Oh, you didna say that to her?'

In spite of her fears that the old lady would turn against Sandy for being so outspoken, the next half hour established a pattern. Sandy went to the sitting room every day and did his homework with Miss Wallace sitting beside him at the bureau. His speech, and Mysie's, quickly altered, until they lost almost all their dialect, only a word or two slipping in if they spoke without thinking.

Gladys, always afraid of her mistress, left one day in tears after being scolded for upsetting a tea-tray, and Mabel, the new maid, seemed just as nervous, although Mysie told her that the old lady's bark was worse than her bite. She was nervous herself, however, when Miss Wallace told her to sit down one morning. ‘When is your confinement due, Mrs Duncan?'

‘Five weeks yet.'

‘How are you coping with all the work you have to do?'

‘Oh, I'm managing fine. I told you, I worked right up …'

‘But this is a much bigger house than you had, and … oh, I suppose it will be all right, but have you thought of where you will give birth?'

‘Where?' Mysie's heart fluttered. Was this her dismissal? ‘I hadna thought about that.'

‘I have thought about it. You will have your baby here, and I will hire a midwifery nurse for two weeks so that you will have time to recover properly.'

‘But I canna pay for a nurse. Is there nae a woman …?'

‘I will pay for the nurse. I will also pay for everything the infant will need.'

‘But I canna let you do that.'

Miss Wallace shook her head. ‘I want to do it. You and your son have changed my life completely. I feel years younger, and I want to repay you.'

‘But you give me wages, and it's senseless you paying a nurse for two weeks when I …'

‘If there is one thing which annoys me, it is kindness being thrown back in my face.'

‘I'm sorry. I didna mean to … oh, Miss Wallace, it's very good of you.'

Mysie had another weep that night. After all those wicked things she had done, she didn't deserve kindness like this. If Miss Wallace ever found out that Doddie wasn't her husband, or that he had stabbed Jeems – she was practically sure now that she hadn't done it herself – or that she had buried the body, the old lady would be sure to throw her out. And where would she go with two children to bring up?