The Road to Rowanbrae (8 page)

As Sandy trailed through to the other room, Jeems, stretching his arms above his head, gave a loud yawn and regarded Mysie hopefully. ‘I'm fit for my bed mysel'. Are you comin'?'

‘Aye, in a minute.' Like Sandy, she was loath to return to the old pattern, afraid that Jeems would demand the solace she couldn't give him. A few minutes later, she was shivering with disgust at his undressed figure. The long woollen drawers did nothing to hide the outward curve of his bandy legs; the tight linder emphasised his pot belly; the soles of his feet, as he clambered into the high box bed, were leathery and calloused.

Oh, God, she thought, in anguish, if he were Doddie she would be in the bed beside him like a shot, but she was tied to this ugly brute of a man for the rest of her life – or his – and she would have to try to forget the magic of Doddie's kisses, as she would have to try to forget the manner of Jamie's death. She was absolutely positive that she would never forget either the boy himself – or the man she loved.

Chapter Seven

‘The new packman should be here the morn,' Jess observed.

Mysie nodded. ‘I wonder what like he'll be?'

‘He's bound to be younger than Jockie,' Jess grinned, ‘but mind you, Jockie was a fine auld man – never a bad word to say aboot onybody. There's nae mony folk like that nooadays.'

‘No, an' he could mak' you feel as though you was his maist important customer.'

‘I used to be sorry I couldna buy mair fae him,' Jess said, pensively, ‘but he ken't I hadna the bawbees.'

‘Aye, he never tried to mak' you buy ony mair than you asked. I aye took him in an' gi'ed him a cup o' tea, should I dae that wi' the new man?'

‘You're auld enough to mak' up your ain mind aboot him when he comes.' Knowing Mysie's vulnerability with young men, Jess issued a warning. ‘I wouldna gi'e him ower muckle rope to start wi', if I was you, though. It's best to go canny.'

Remembering that it was on the day of Jockie's last visit that the tragedy had occurred, Jess wished with all her being that she hadn't brought up the subject, for Mysie hadn't got over Jamie's death yet. She'd carried on bravely from the day after the funeral, but her heart hadn't been in what she was doing, poor soul. It was really a good thing that it would be a new packman, for it wouldn't remind her so much.

Standing up, she said, ‘I'll need to be awa'. See you the morn.' She had never missed a day going to Rowanbrae for the past three months, no matter how busy she was, and knew that her friend depended on her visits.

After Jess left, Mysie rinsed out the cups, thanking God once again for their friendship, deeper than ever since that awful day. She was gradually coming to terms with her loss, though she would never get over it completely, and the mention of the new packman had kindled her interest. In fact, she realised in some surprise, she felt quite excited about it, and she would likely have a big disappointment when she saw him. Even if he was young, he might be fat and greasy and sweaty and she just hated sweaty men. Sweat from hard work was a different thing. Jeems often came home sweating, but after he washed, he wasn't so bad, and Doddie Wilson had been sweating when he'd danced with her, but his sweat smelt different from Jeems's – sweeter, more manly. But she hadn't seen Doddie since the meal and ale four months ago, and there seemed little chance of ever seeing him again.

Sandy came home then, putting Doddie out of her mind, even making her forget her speculations about the new packman. He went straight to the pantry. ‘Can I ha'e a scone an' butter, Mam? I'm that hungry I could eat a …'

‘You'll get your supper in a wee while, just go an' change your claes, that'll tak' your mind aff your belly.'

‘It'll nae dae that.' But he did as he was told, and was back in the kitchen with his old clothes on by the time Jeems came in. ‘We got muppelication the day,' Sandy announced, when they were sitting round the table. ‘I canna mak' heads or tails o't, an' Meldie was ragin' me …'

Jeems scowled. ‘The man's name's
Mr
Meldrum.'

‘I ken, an' I put my tongue oot at him an' he saw me an' gi'ed me the strap, an' my fingers is still dirlin'.'

Although Jeems knew that the small, spare schoolmaster had an arm of iron that could wield the tawse to good effect, he jumped up angrily and dragged his son to his feet. Holding him by the collar of his jersey, he gave him a great thump on the back. ‘That's for puttin' your tongue oot at the dominie!' Another two hard wallops followed. ‘That's for lettin' him see you, an' that's for gettin' the strap.' He relaxed his hold so quickly that the boy almost fell. ‘You behave yoursel' after this, Sandy, or I'll clout your lug ilka time he straps you, like my father did to me.'

Fighting back his tears, the boy put up a show of defiance. ‘I wasna the only ane. He gi'ed Davey Dite fower on ilka hand for nae gettin' his lang division right, an' he's thirteen an' I bet he could thrash the guts oot o' Meld … Mr Meldrum if he got the chance.'

Knowing all the pupils in the one-teacher school, Mysie said, ‘If it's David Robertson you mean, his name's nae Davey Dite.'

Without thinking, Sandy began to chant, ‘Davey Dite sat doon to shite …' but stopped as his mother slapped his face. ‘What's that for?' he asked, looking pained, although she hadn't hurt him as much as his father had.

‘You ken fine what it was for. I'm sure you dinna learn that kind o' words fae Mr Meldrum.'

‘What kind o' words?'

Jeems, who had almost smiled for a moment as he remembered the familiar doggerel, turned sternly again on his son. ‘You should ken your mother's real pernickety. She doesna like you speakin' aboot shite at the table.'

‘He shouldna speak aboot shite at a',' Mysie retorted, then looked at her husband indignantly. ‘Now see what you made me say! You're worse than the bairn.'

When the boy went out, Jeems said, thoughtfully, ‘He's got a lot mair spunk in him than Jamie ever had.'

Shocked that he could speak so disparagingly of their dead son, Mysie said, caustically, ‘He's gettin' ower big for his breeches. Eh … do you ken the rest o' what he was sayin'?'

‘It's just a rhyme. We used to shout it at Davey Linklater when I was at the school. A' Davids get Davey Dite, whatever their real names is.' Baring his teeth in a barbaric grin, Jeems recited, ‘ “Davey Dite, sat doon to shite, upon a marble stane. The wind blew, the skitter flew, into Davey Dite's een.” Are you pleased noo?'

Taken aback at the vulgarity, Mysie burst out, ‘That's awfu' things for loons to be sayin'.'

‘Loons'll be loons to the end o' time, wumman, an' Sandy'll likely dae a lot worse things than that afore he's a man.'

Sighing, she rose to clear the table. Sandy had already done the most terrible thing she could imagine, so surely it wasn't likely that he could do anything worse? Nevertheless, right up until she went to bed, she felt a vague sense of foreboding.

Mysie had just come inside from churning the butter the next morning when someone knocked at her door. When she opened it, the pack on the man's back told her who he was, but she would never have guessed if it hadn't been for that. The packman wasn't much older than she was, very slim and tall, with coppery wavy hair and a big smile that disarmed her immediately. The warning that Jess had given didn't enter her head as she said, ‘I aye took Jockie in an' gi'ed him a cup o' tea. Would you like ane?'

‘That's good of you, Missus.' His English voice was deep and soft. ‘I was hoping someone would offer.' He followed her into the kitchen. ‘You're quite comfortable here.'

‘It's nae bad,' she said, modestly. ‘Jockie usually let me see his things the time the tea was maskin'.' Lifting his pack from the floor, he laid it on the table and opened it up. ‘This is the very best Valencian lace.'

‘I canna afford to buy naething like that, for we're croftin' folk, an' I havena got naething to spare for fancy frills.'

He turned the full power of his magnetism on her. ‘You don't need anything to set off your beauty, but let me show you.' Taking the roll out, he held a length of it against her neck, the touch of his fingers making her skin tingle. ‘You're like a princess,' he sighed, his eyes coming to rest on her bosom.

She smiled nervously. ‘You've never seen ony princesses.'

‘You're just what I picture a princess must look like.'

She was fully aware that the flattery was to persuade her to buy, but it was good to be flattered, however insincerely. ‘Weel,' she said, having asked the price, ‘just gi'e me half a yard, that would be enough.'

‘Enough to go round the neck of a nightgown,' he agreed, his hand brushing against her again as he took the lace away. ‘I wish I could see you wearing it when you've sewn it on.'

‘Och, awa' wi' you,' she giggled, quite embarrassed.

‘Come closer and I'll show you what else I have.'

Unsuspecting, she moved nearer, and was startled when both his arms went round her, but the hypnotising entreaty in his dark eyes kept her from pulling away.

‘What's your name, princess?' His voice was soft and low.

‘Mysie,' she said, shyly, and was instantly ashamed of it. ‘I was baptised May.'

‘May suits you much better. Well, my little Princess May, how about a kiss now we're so close?' She shook her head weakly, but he kissed her anyway, a kiss that transported her to another world and made her forget her husband, her dead child, even Doddie Wilson. ‘You must have been starved of love, Princess May,' he said, in a moment, ‘but Larry Larry can put that right.'

‘Is that your name?' She had never heard it before, but he wasn't from round here, and the English had some funny ideas.

‘I was christened Lawrence Lawrence, but I'm usually called Larry Larry, sometimes even Double Larry.'

Pulling her to him, he ran his hands up and down her spine while he kissed her, then, sure that the right moment had come, he turned her sideways to cup her breast, and Mysie, putty in his hands, didn't try to stop him. For some time, he took full advantage of her obvious naivety, murmuring sweet nothings as he stroked and fondled and kissed, until he judged that it was safe to proceed a little further. ‘What a tiny waist you have,' he murmured against her neck. ‘I can nearly span it with my hands, my lovely Princess May.'

She didn't understand that it was reaction to Jamie's death that was heightening the effect this man had on her, that and the emotions that Doddie had set loose at the meal and ale. She was grain ripe for harvesting, and Lawrence Lawrence from Yarmouth was more than willing to be the reaper. Manoeuvring her on to the hearthrug, he pushed her skirts aside, smothering her with kisses all the while to stop any protests she might make, but she was drowning in a sea of wonderful, unfamiliar sensations and had no inclination to try to save herself.

In the circumstances, the seduction practically amounted to rape, but, very shortly, Mysie Duncan knew an ecstasy she had never known before, and she didn't come to her senses until it was over. ‘You shouldna ha'e daen that,' she gasped.

Larry Larry smiled. ‘You didn't stop me, and you enjoyed it, didn't you? Tell the truth now, Princess May.'

Unable to meet his eyes, she scrambled up off the floor and straightened her clothing, but, recalling her ecstatic moans when her release came and the thrill of his fingers digging into her flesh when he reached his, she couldn't deny that she had enjoyed it.

Fastening his trousers, he got to his feet. ‘I'll cut off your lace,' he said briskly, as if nothing had happened.

She was too embarrassed to look at him as she took out her purse and paid for the lace, but he grasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘Will that last you for three months?' His smouldering eyes told her that he wasn't referring to the lace, nor to the kiss on the hand, so she wisely said nothing. ‘Have this sewn on before I come back,' he smiled, letting go her hand and passing over her purchase. ‘I can hardly wait to see you in your nightdress.'

After he left, neither of them remembering the tea she had offered, she sank into a chair, her heart still pounding. She had committed a sin – adultery was one of the worst – and she should be deeply ashamed, but she wasn't, not one little bit. She felt … triumphant. Jeems had never taken her to the heights she had reached with Larry Larry, and she had learned that it was the man's place to coax the woman, not the other way round. It didn't matter if the young packman didn't love her – she was almost sure he didn't – for he had proved to her that she wasn't incapable of responding properly to a man, as she had once believed.

Chapter Eight

It was useless trying to pretend that it hadn't happened, Mysie thought, desolately; she couldn't fool herself any longer. There was no doubt that she was in the family way, and Jeems would know it wasn't his. He hadn't been at her for over six months, for poor, idiot Nessie White was more than ready to oblige him.

There must be something she could do to get rid of it, but Jess would be disgusted and wouldn't tell her even if she knew. It wasn't as if she had felt any real love for the man, just the need to be wanted, comforted, but he was due back tomorrow, and she would have to tell Jeems first. Having another man's bairn was a thousand times worse than kissing Doddie, and she was half afraid that her husband would kill her when he found out, but if he just threw her out, Larry Larry would have to look after her. It was all his fault, although she should have kicked his shins before he got as far as he did, like Jess had once done to the miller.

Deciding to say nothing until Sandy was in bed, Mysie stood up wearily and went to fill the wooden wash tub. The clothes she later hung on the lines had been scrubbed as they'd never been scrubbed before, the physical exertion helping her, but it was still an effort to appear normal at dinnertime. If Jeems had any suspicion that she was hiding something, he was likely to force it out of her, and she wasn't ready to confess.

When Sandy came home from school – his tongue wagging like the clapper of a bell in his haste to tell her that he'd fought with another boy about who could run faster – her apprehension of what might happen that night made her turn on him sharply. ‘For ony sake, haud your wheesht. You should think yoursel' lucky you can run at a'. There's mony poor laddies that canna.'

‘Dae you ken ony that canna?' Sandy's curiosity wasn't in any way dimmed by the steely glint in his mother's eyes.

‘No, I dinna, but I've heard stories. Nae mair nonsense noo – shift oot o' your school claes an' tak' in some sticks for me. You're auld enough noo to gi'e me a hand.'

Jeems looked pleased with himself at suppertime. ‘That's the far park ploo'ed, so I'll nae bother goin' oot again the nicht.'

Mysie nodded. ‘Aye, you've worked hard this week.' If she kept him in a good mood, she reasoned, he might not lose his head so easily when she told him.

After they'd eaten, and the dishes were washed and laid past, she sat down to hear Sandy's reading, doing her best to keep calm when he stumbled over words he should have known. Then she asked him his spellings, but, seeing Jeems glancing at the wag-at-the-wa' and frowning, she knew that she could put the evil moment off no longer. ‘That'll dae the nicht, Sandy,' she said, closing both primer and spelling book and putting them in his satchel. ‘It's past your bedtime.'

‘Can I nae ha'e a piece an' jam first?'

The boy made the slice of bread and jam last so long that Jeems barked, ‘Go oot to the privy an' get to your bed.'

Knowing how quickly his father could pounce on him, Sandy went out, but made one last feeble effort when he returned. ‘My throat's as dry as a board, Mam.'

‘Bed!' Jeems thundered. ‘I'll nae tell you again.'

As the door closed behind the boy, Jeems said, almost as if he were talking to himself, ‘I used to say I was needin' twa sons in case onything happened to one o' them. Jamie wouldna ha'e been fit to tak' ower this place fae me, supposin' he'd lived, for he was never strong. Sandy's got mair in him. He's nae feared to try onything.' He yawned suddenly. ‘Losh, I'm tired the nicht, I'll ha'e to go to my bed as well. Are you comin'?'

‘I'll just tidy up a bit first.'

She was conscious of him watching her from the bed as she pottered about, desperately trying to find the words to tell him, but eventually she lit the small lamp on the mantelpiece and turned out the big one on the table, the last thing she did every night.

‘You've been awfu' quiet since suppertime,' Jeems observed, suddenly. ‘Is there something on your mind?'

Her heart in her mouth, she looked straight at him. ‘I'm goin' to ha'e a bairn.' She hadn't meant to come out with it like that, but couldn't think of another way. It obviously took a few seconds to sink in, and in other circumstances she would have laughed at the bewilderment on his face, but when it did penetrate, he flung back the bedcovers and sprang on to the floor, his face livid. ‘I'll kill Doddie Wilson for this!'

‘No, no, Jeems! It wasna Doddie! Please, Jeems, I'm tellin' you the God's honest truth – it wasna him!' It had never for one moment crossed Mysie's mind that he would think that.

‘Who was it?' He came towards her menacingly. ‘Another o' Waterton's men, or Fingask's, or do you nae ken which ane's the father? Were you whorin' among them a'?'

Taking a step back, Mysie whispered, ‘I havena been …' She choked over the word.

‘What would you say it was, if it wasna whorin'?'

‘It was just once, Jeems, an' …' She broke off when his clenched fist cracked against her jaw.

‘Tell me the bugger's name, damn you!'

Her hand clamped to her aching face, she muttered, ‘You dinna ken him.'

‘Tell me the bugger's name, you bitch!' he bellowed.

‘What difference does it mak'?'

‘I'll mak' the bugger o' hell wish he'd never been born!'

‘An' what good would that dae? It'll nae put awa' the life inside me, an' it's me you should …'

‘Aye is it, you worthless trash!' He punched her chest and watched with grim satisfaction as she reeled back, writhing in agony. ‘An' dinna run awa' wi' the idea I couldna put an end to the life inside you, for I wouldna think twice aboot it!'

Doubled up as she was, Mysie couldn't resist taunting him. ‘Go on, then! Kill my bairn – kill me, if you like!'

He came forward again, but stopped. ‘No, no, my fine lady! You'll nae get oot o' it as easy as that! You'll ha'e the bairn, an' I'll let a'body ken it's nae mine, an' you can face up to the shame o' the whole place laughin' at you.'

‘It's you they'll laugh at, for goin' to Nessie White.'

His anger flared up again at that. ‘It was your blame I went to her, an' she gi'ed me what I needed, for you let me believe you didna like onybody touchin' you, though I can see noo it was just me you didna like. Weel, I'll mak' damned sure nae man will want to touch you again!' Grabbing her shoulders, he shook her until her teeth rattled. ‘An' you still havena tell't me the father!'

‘I tell't you … you dinna … ken him.'

He flung himself at her now, knocking her against the table, which teetered for a moment then fell over, the glass of the lamp shattering in smithereens on the floor. Her head snapped back with the impact of his knuckles on her eyebrow, making her cry out in pain, and with fear that he might go on until she had no life left in her. ‘Oh, Jeems, stop, stop! I'll tell you! It was the packman!'

He stepped back in amazement, his mouth hanging open. ‘I aye wondered why you was so anxious to see him. Christ, you must ha'e been desperate to let a auld man like him …'

‘Jockie gi'ed it up a while back,' Mysie sobbed. ‘It's another man that comes noo.'

‘An' how mony times has he been, this other man? How often did you let him inside you …?'

‘He's only been here once,' she faltered, knowing that it made matters worse, and holding on to the back of a chair because her legs felt as if they might give way at any minute.

‘Just once?' The chair was sent spinning when he lunged at her again. ‘Jesus, you didna tak' lang to let him bed you.'

‘I didna let him bed me,' she cried. Even although one eye was almost blinded with blood, she had to correct him on this. ‘I'd never ha'e let him put me on the bed. I didna ken what he was goin' to dae when he put his arms roon' me first, but we ended up on the rug in front o' the fire …'

‘That's nae such a sin, is it? An' was it better that way?'

Mysie couldn't help retaliating at the heavy sarcasm. ‘Aye was it! He's a better man than you, an' he didna mak' me dae things to him like you did, for he was ready for me afore we lay doon … an' I was ready for him!' She clawed at his hands when he grabbed her hair, but he knocked her head against the mantelpiece until she was afraid that her skull would split, and she felt herself sinking towards oblivion. He stopped suddenly. ‘I'd castrate that bugger if I could get my hands on him.' His eyes darted to the floor, where the drawer of the table had spilled out its contents, then he whipped round. Mysie's brain told her that she should get away from him as long as his attention was off her, but her whole body seemed to be paralysed.

When she saw him picking up the razor-sharp knife he used for skinning the rabbits he caught in his snares, she was sure that he meant to kill her. ‘No, Jeems!' she cried out, but he twisted her arm behind her back and held it there until she sank to her knees, then, toppling her over with his foot, he threw up her skirts and lowered the knife slowly.

‘The bloody packman'll nae want you when I've finished wi' you,' he roared.

Only then understanding what he intended to do, she begged, ‘No, Jeems. Dinna cut me there, dinna, dinna!' Her desperate struggles hindered him a little, but she was no match for his brute strength, and he stared down at her with crazed eyes, forcing the knife inch by grunting inch between her tightly clenched legs. When the blade finally pierced her skin through her drawers, Mysie did sink into oblivion – her last thought being that she would be glad to die, to get away from this raving lunatic.