Looking at her sympathetically, he turned and went back to the kitchen, leaving Elspeth considering what he had said. She had heard other folk in the village saying the same thing, now that she came to think of it, and Christmas was less than five weeks away. John would be home ... and they would be married ... and everything would be all right.
The hostilities were not over by Christmas – only an English festival and an ordinary working day in Auchlonie, even the bairns waited until the last night of each year to hang up their stockings. Nettie and Kirsty had commiserated with Elspeth when she went back to work the day after learning what John had done, but had forgotten about it in the anticipation of Hogmanay, and she felt that no one understood her misery at being denied the opportunity to say goodbye to him and to wish him luck.
She was unable to enter into the spirit of the festivities to bid farewell to 1914 and to welcome in a new, hopefully better, year, although the neighbours ‘first-footed’ the Grays with the traditional gifts of shortbread or lumps of coal, taking their own whisky bottles in with them because they knew that Geordie never had any spirits in the house. Her New Year’s Day off was like another Sunday to her, apart from not having to go to church.
In the workroom next day, Nettie told the other two what had happened at her house after the clock had struck midnight on Hogmanay. ‘Everybody was singing, and Johnny Low was that drunk by the time he got to us, he was going round kissing all the lassies.’
‘Did he kiss you?’ little Kirsty asked eagerly.
‘He tried, and I wouldna have said no if he’d been sober.’ Nettie’s laugh was rueful – Johnny Low was quite handsome in a rough sort of way. ‘I can’t stand the smell o’ drink on a lad, and that’s a fact.’
Elspeth reflected sadly that she would have let John kiss her supposing he had hardly been able to stand, but he hadn’t given her the chance that Saturday in November.
On January 3rd, having had to unpick the lining of a costume jacket because she had inserted a right sleeve into a left armhole in her distraction, Elspeth was doubly dispirited and wondered why her mother seemed so excited. ‘A letter come for you second post, Eppie,’ Lizzie burst out.
Her dejection falling away like magic, the girl picked up the buff-coloured envelope addressed in a flowing hand to Miss Elspeth Gray, The Cottar Houses, Mains of Denseat, Auchlonie, Aberdeenshire, Scotland, with ‘Army Post Service’ stamped at the side. Her fingers trembled as she feverishly tore it open and Lizzie watched with amusement as her daughter skimmed over the page, then went back to the start and read it again out loud, her face wreathed in smiles.
My Dear Elspeth,
I am very sorry for not coming to supper that night, it feels like years ago. I suppose you had heard that I got drunk that forenoon, and I am really ashamed of it. I should not have let the other lads talk me into going drinking. I was still not right sober when it was time to catch the train on Sunday morning, and I did not have time to come to see you anyway. I could not manage to write to you before we sailed, but I often thought about you. Please forgive me for leaving you waiting, it must have been terrible for you, not knowing. Remember, you are my whole life and I promise to wed you when I get home next time. Thinking about that is what keeps me going in this awful place. Once again, I am very sorry for what I did, but I
will
make it up to you some day soon. Yours forever,
John
P.S. I love you
This written avowal of his love made Elspeth’s brimming eyes spill over, and Lizzie’s sniff sounded suspiciously as if she were on the verge of weeping, too, but she said, brusquely, ‘Stop your nonsense, lass, or you’ll make your-self ill.’
Nettie and Kirsty, however, joined in her rejoicing as soon as she had the opportunity to tell them, the letter being shown proudly and inspected with great interest.
‘Oh, I’m right happy for you,’ Nettie burst out. ‘I didna believe you before, for I thought you was just making it up to make us jealous.’
‘It’s that romantic,’ sighed young Kirsty. ‘And it’s really real, not a story. You’re awful lucky, Elspeth.’
‘I ken,’ Elspeth said, blissfully.
At suppertime, when Geordie was told that John had sent a letter of apology, he muttered, ‘Saying he’s sorry doesna excuse him for keeping you waiting like that, and he’s not worth bothering wi’. Thank God you didna ken him long enough to get fond o’ him.’
Knowing that it had been love at first sight for both boy and girl, Lizzie’s heart sank as she saw her husband’s tightly-gripped, disapproving mouth. Even if Forrest of Blairton agreed to let his son marry, Geordie Gray would definitely not let Elspeth be the bride.
The letter became crumpled and barely legible over the next few weeks with the girl reading it so often, but Lizzie shook her head each evening to show that no second one had come, her own heart as sore as her daughter’s, perhaps even sorer, because she foresaw more heartache in store for Elspeth when Geordie forbade the marriage.
‘It’s weeks since we’d a letter from John.’ Meg Forrest voiced the thought for the first time, though it had been uppermost in her mind for ages. Her husband had no patience with worrying women, but he must surely understand what their son’s silence was doing to her. If she had only known, he was as concerned as she was, but thought it unmanly to admit it. To reassure her, he said, ‘The Huns’ll not stop fighting to give our John time to write home.’
His sarcasm was wasted. ‘I keep praying he’s safe,’ Meg murmured. ‘Are you not worried for him?’
His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed. ‘Aye, lass, I am worried for him, but I try not to think about it. We can do nothing except wait for word.’
‘Aye.’ Meg laid her hand on his sleeve to let him know that she understood what he felt, and when he went out, she washed up the breakfast things and put the kettle back on in case Willie Mavor had something for her.
Twenty minutes passed before she saw the postman cycling up the dirt road, whistling as he always did, so she masked a pot of tea for him. She was not superstitious as a rule, but as she opened the door, she crossed her fingers that there would be a letter from France today.
Willie knew how anxious Meg must be to hear from her son, and handed her the envelope as soon as he went inside. ‘It’s been a while since your John wrote,’ he remarked, sitting down at the table and helping himself to a home-baked scone. ‘It’s a worrying time, especially for the mothers, for they seem to take it harder than their men.’
‘Aye.’ Although Meg knew that he was waiting for her to open the letter so that he could pass the news on, she wanted to be on her own when she read it; she might give way and weep, and she couldn’t let Willie have that to pass on.
At last, the postman pushed away his cup and stood up. ‘I hope young John hasna been in the heart o’ the fighting.’
‘I hope no’.’ She felt guilty at not satisfying the man’s curiosity, but closed the door and hurried over to pick up the letter, fatter than the only other one John had sent.
‘Dear Mother.’ The words danced on the page and she had to rise to get her spectacles. She had been having trouble reading anything other than fairly large print for some time now, and had seen the optician on his last monthly visit to Auchlonie. It was only a week since she had collected the glasses he had prescribed and she still forgot to put them on before she started to read anything.
Dear Mother,
I am sorry you have had to wait so long for this letter, but we do not have much peace to sit down and write, as you can imagine. We are back off the line just now, so I want to tell you something I meant to tell you that last Saturday but I was in no state. I took Geordie Gray’s daughter to the Masonic Hall dance when I was on leave, and to cut a long story short, we love each other and I am going to wed her when I come back. I don’t want to go to Canada now, so I am sure Father will be pleased. When I was in their house, I saw a grandfather clock with Geordie and Lizzie’s initials engraved on the pendulum. It was the most romantic thing I had ever seen, so I’ve written to a clockmaker I saw in Perth, asking him to make one exactly the same, but with Elspeth’s initials and mine. It will be delivered to Blairton, but it’s for Elspeth. I can hardly wait to see her face on our wedding day when I give it to her. I hope you and Father are both keeping well, your devoted son,
John
Meg sighed as she laid the letter down. She was happy that he had found a lass – the Grays were a decent family, and he could do a lot worse – and that he was intending to settle down at Blairton after the war, but it must be terrible out there in France. One of his friends had been reported killed in action already, and another one was missing.
‘Dear God,’ she prayed, ‘please don’t let my son be taken from me for good. I’ll be happy to share him with Elspeth Gray or any other girl if he comes through the war safely.’
Rising to carry on with her housework, Meg’s mind kept going over what John had written. She knew the lassie by sight, a pretty wee thing sitting with her parents in the kirk, but she couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen, if she was that. It wasn’t likely that Geordie Gray knew about her attachment to John, so it would be best not to say anything about it to him or Lizzie.
When Blairton read the letter, he smiled. ‘I was feared he had no interest in lassies, and I’m pleased he’s not like that, for a man needs a wife.’
‘Elspeth looks a sober enough creature,’ Meg observed, ‘and I’m sure Geordie Gray’ll not be against the match, though he’ll likely want them to wait a year or so, for she’s still a bit young.’
‘She’ll not be so young by the time this war’s finished.’ He looked serious. ‘It’s going to be a long, hard struggle, for we’ll have our work cut out to beat the Huns.’
‘As long as our John doesna get killed.’
‘Don’t let your mind dwell on that.’ He sat for a few more minutes, then said, ‘Stop worrying, Meg, everything’ll come out all right. Elspeth Gray’s put Canada out of his head, thank goodness, and though I’d hoped he’d pick a farmer’s daughter for a wife, she comes of good enough stock. I’ll have no objection to him marrying her when the time comes, and maybe they’ll have sons to carry on Blairton, like I’ve aye wanted. Now, is my dinner ready?’
Towards the end of January, Elspeth became numbly aware that her actions on the night of the storm in November and on the day she had spent at Blairton could not be kept secret much longer, but she was afraid to consult Doctor McLean in case he told her parents. Her mother would be angry, there was no doubt about that, for she’d be worried about what folk would say, but once she got over the shock she would shield her daughter as much as she could and see her through her time. It was what her father would do that made Elspeth shiver with fear. He could be cruel and unforgiving, and would likely throw her out into the street like the heroines in Nettie’s sister’s novelettes. She was desperately miserable, recalling the disgust of the local women when the dairymaid at Denseat had to leave in disgrace some months before. ‘Easy meat for anything in breeks,’ they had sneered, and it would be unbearable to have them saying things like that about her. Each morning, she forced herself to go to work, but could show no interest in anything, not even in the chit-chat that went on when Miss Fraser was out.
She could think of nothing but her own dilemma, a dilemma she knew was all of her own making, and the only thought she could dredge up to comfort herself was that John would surely be home in time to wed her before the baby was born.
Feeling quite out-of-sorts this February morning, Meg Forrest put it down to another sleepless night worrying about John, topped by Willie Mavor delivering only a bill from a cattle-feed company in Aberdeen. She couldn’t rid her body of the sense of being weighted down, as if her limbs were made of lead, and poured herself a cup of tea at half past eight to see if that would revive her.
She was still trying to summon up enough energy to go and feed the hens when someone rang the front door bell, and her heart turned over – all the usual callers knew to come round the back. It was young Davie McIntyre, in his telegraph boy’s uniform, which didn’t altogether surprise her – this was what her body had been preparing her for. When she stretched out to take the yellow envelope, the boy held on to it, murmuring uncomfortably, ‘I’d best get your man. I saw him in the near park.’
Meg was ice-cold when she returned to the kitchen. She knew, without having to read it, what the telegram would say. Hearing her husband’s heavy feet echoing rapidly on the stones in the yard, she turned to face him when he came running in, red-faced and breathless, and was surprised to see that the envelope in his hand was still unopened. Had he, too, known what it would contain? He did not even look at her as he ripped the side off and extracted the message inside, but one quick glance made his face blanch as though a bucket of whitewash had been thrown over it.
‘Oh, God,’ he groaned, ‘I was feared this is what it was. John was killed in action on the tenth.’ Staggering like a newly-blinded man, he collapsed on to the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands, so unaccustomed to showing such a private emotion as grief that it came from him in eerie, wailing moans.
Meg picked up the small sheet of paper which had fluttered to the floor, and studied the strips of words on it to make sure that he had read them all, but there was nothing other than the bald statement of John’s death. The blood-curdling sounds still emanating from her husband made her move to grip his shoulder, and he flung one arm out to encircle her waist. ‘Oh, Meg,’ he muttered, brokenly, ‘it’s me should be comforting you. I’m a poor kind o’ man letting go like this, but ... I ... I can’t help it. I’m ... sorry, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s best you let it out,’ she soothed, stroking his head. ‘It’s only natural.’ Her own eyes were dry, for she had steeled herself not to give way to her sorrow. That could come later, when she was alone.
‘I was aye ... feared for this,’ he went on, ‘though I tried not to let you see. There’s been a weight on my heart since the very day he went to France.’