by Leah Fleming
The fortunes of war were changing in favour of the Allies and the KOSBs were training intensely for the final assault on Europe. Soon the marsh orchids were springing up by the shore as rumours of a Second Front strengthened. Rae knew he would be going south soon. Time was running out for the lovers and he was desperate for a solution.
‘Marry me, Jeanette? I know it’s crazy but just let’s go and do it before I’m sent abroad. I can’t hold back any longer and I don’t want to shame you. I want to give you all of me before I go, just in case…’
Netta put her fingers on his mouth to stop his words.
‘Don’t you even think the worst. How can I let you go without being a part of you? Of course I’ll marry you but there’s not enough time… How could we do it?’
‘Let’s go to Gretna Green, to the anvil priest – flying away like Lochinvar in this old jalopy. Why not elope by moonlight? Then no one can spoil our time together. I’ll find out what we have to do if you’ll promise that when I send the signal, you’ll get yourself to Dumfries to meet me. Will you do it? Will you marry me? And then when the war’s over we’ll really set the heather ablaze! But, if you prefer, I’ll run the gauntlet and ask your father.’
‘Don’t waste your breath, I know just what he’ll be saying,’ she mimicked. ‘“Yer too young to marry, there’s a war on, wait until it’s all settled. Buy her a ring if you must but no weddings yet. Don’t be hasty!” Who wants to hear that, Rae, when we’ve only got weeks left? You do the fixing and I’ll make my preparations.’
‘Don’t go to any trouble. Save your coupons.’
‘If you think I’m going to my wedding in a threadbare Sunday suit, then you’ve a lot to learn about Nettie Thimble!’
How could she refuse such a romantic proposal? This was her decision and after all she was eighteen – old enough to know that loving a man like Rae would only happen once in her life. Desperate times needed desperate measures. They must take this chance of happiness before it was washed away like footprints in the sand.
*
It was easy to deceive everyone in Stratharvar into thinking the romance was over. Netta went about her farmwork with a face like thunder, letting it be known that Rae Hunter was just another unreliable soldier boy. Then she took to her room with her sewing machine to make a pattern and design a dress with a bolero jacket. A trip to Dumfries for the lavender wool crepe from Barbour’s store blew all her clothing coupons away in one go. Peg left her alone to her secret trousseau-making, thinking the girl was comforting herself as usual with some stitchery. When sorrow sleeps best wake it not.
Netta waited anxiously for the letter that would signal their elopement. She had sneaked her birth certificate from Father’s deed box, along with her identity card and ration book; drawn out her savings in dribs and drabs from the Post office. Then, when the note came, she packed a little leather case with underwear and a nightdress sewn from parachute silk, appliquéd around the edge with lacy scallops, and her bridal outfit.
She paced her room, tormented with guilt, knowing that her flight would upset her parents and shame them before the district. But when love was this urgent it had to be obeyed and to hell with the consequences which would surely follow their deception.
‘Oh, Mother,’ she cried, ‘we have to be together. You would understand, I’m sure… he colours my heart with fire and he’s my life now.’
She passed the empty bedroom where Peg and Angus slept. The door was ajar and Netta found herself walking over to the mahogany dressing table with its kneehole and drawers to either side. In the bottom right-hand drawer was the blue box she had fingered so lovingly many times as a child. Quickly she slipped it into her coat pocket, placing a letter by the mirror.
After all, she argued to herself, I must borrow something and the necklace needs an airing: something old would be most of her bridal underwear, something new and blue was her two-piece suit. Something borrowed would bring them luck.
*
Rae was waiting to meet her at Gretna station. Under his black motorbike helmet his face was tired and tense. He had a ten-day pass in his pocket, enough time for the wedding and a honeymoon. They drove into the tiny village of Gretna Green and went straight to the blacksmith’s whitewashed cottage, site of so many famous runaway weddings for hundreds of years. Mr Rennison, the anvil priest, in his workaday overalls, shook his head sadly at first.
‘Did no one tell yous? I cannae marry you legally over the anvil, not since 1940, the churches have put a stop to a’ that. You’ll have to cross over to the Register Office in Gretna and give them two weeks’ notice.’
‘How long?’ asked Netta, clutching Rae’s hand.
‘Fifteen days… to see yer papers are in order. I’m sorry.’
‘But we haven’t got fifteen days… This is embarkation leave, I’ve ten days at most.’ Rae turned to his bride. Netta was in tears of disappointment. Cold water was being splashed all over her dreams.
‘Can’t you just give us a blessing, the old way, please? We can’t come all this way for nothing! Then, if we give notice to marry, we can come back another day and do it officially.’
Netta was thinking fast, the possibility of not being married by the blacksmith had never entered her head. Girl’s romances were full of escaping heiresses crossing the border at dead of night with fathers in hot pursuit. She had heard of the blacksmith’s certificate being legal tender in Scotland, irregular marriage though it was considered. A blessing would have to do for now.’
‘I don’t like to turn true lovers away. Sure enough I can say the words over you but what we do here is no a legal wedding, mind. It’s a wedding of the heart only.’ He smiled and led them through into the little room where the anvil stood, calling in his assistant as a witness.
‘Can I get changed, please?’ said Netta, clutching her suitcase. She was shown quickly into a little parlour where she rummaged through her case and flung on the dress and the necklace. She pinned a little piece of old lace to an artificial silk rose and stabbed it with a hatpin into her hair. Emerging, she smiled shyly at Rae and he grasped her hand. ‘You look lovely.’
They stood over the anvil and the blacksmith asked them their ages and if they were here of their own free will. They clasped hands and repeated their vows.
‘I, Raeburn, take thee, Jeanette…’
‘I, Jeanette, take thee, Raeburn…’
He then placed his mother’s engagement ring, a cluster of opals and diamond chips in a half hoop of gold, on Netta’s finger. The blacksmith priest clanged the hammer down on the anvil.
‘For as much as this man and this woman have consented together before God, handfasted together before witnesses, I declare in His sight only are they now man and wife. You may now kiss your bride… but for God’s sake get yourself down to Gretna and do the job properly and don’t say anything about this ceremony! I cannae gie you a certificate or register you, but we know what we know… Good luck to you both!’
The couple stood looking stunned in the little room with its smell of smoke and iron, dust and horse manure; a soldier in his mud-splattered uniform and Netta with most of her bridal outfit still in its case. It would have to wait for the official ceremony, for the bouquet and photographs and the brass ring they would acquire if necessary.
Outside in the spring sunshine they stood in the blacksmith’s yard, reluctant to leave this sacred spot and not quite sure what to do next. It was all so simple, so tender. The world of war closing in on them was pushed back for ten precious minutes: all it had taken to join them forever.
They found the tiny Register Office down the Annan Road but it was closed. Rae slipped a note through the door, giving notice of their intention to marry in fourteen days’ time. Then they roared off along the coast road and found rooms on a farm. The wife was suspicious and asked to see their marriage lines before turning them away. They found an empty byre near Powfoot on the edge of the Solway Estuary, made themselves a bridal picnic of morning rolls and
cold meat, fruit and fruit bannocks. Afterwards they walked barefoot, making patterns of footprints in the mud, sketching the coastline under a cloudy sky. There was so much to talk over, fresh plans to make for the official ceremony, but more important was planning their future lives together. So much about each other’s past lives they still didn’t know.
Rae told her about his Aunt Freddie and her friend, Annie. ‘I saw so much love between them – I never saw them as odd or different – and when Annie was told of her terrible illness they decided they just couldn’t be parted. They bound themselves together with rope, face to face, and jumped into the Tweed. I wouldn’t want you to do anything silly if anything happened to me… Promise me you will be brave and get on with your plans, with or without me? I’m sorry it’s all been such a hotch-potch. I never thought to check about Gretna Green…’
‘Stop that! I won’t hear such nonsense on our honeymoon. Don’t let anything spoil this time, Rae, please. No army, no wars or relatives. I wouldn’t swap our anvil wedding for the poshest of cathedral weddings with all the champagne and fancies. I just wish it could last forever.’ Netta sighed, snuggling into his arms, feeling the chill of the sea breeze.
‘Nothing lasts forever, Jeanette. After Aunt Freddie died I had no one in the world who cared if I lived or died. I used to feel I was cut adrift without a rudder to guide me. Now, with you steering the ship, I know we’ll set the heather on fire, search the whole world for our inspiration. The war must end once we land in Europe. I feel such hope for us.’ Rae kissed her enthusiastically and they fell together to the damp grass.
Love knows no rules or regulations, no rations and blackouts, curfews and call-ups. In the cosy darkness of their straw bed they nuzzled each other tenderly enjoying this new way of loving. For these few days they owned the world. Once their notice to marry was placed with the Registrar, they crossed the border to lodgings near Carlisle and tried to order a wedding ring but there were none to be had.
As they were both Scots born, residents and over sixteen, a wedding without parental consent would be straightforward so long as Rae managed to scrounge enough time to ride over from his barracks for the second ceremony.
To Netta their real marriage had been the vows in the blacksmith’s smiddy but the telegram to Brigg Farm saying: ‘Corporal and Mrs Rae Hunter send greetings from Gretna Green!’ must wait until later. No news of this elopement would be divulged to Stratharvar ears. Heaven only knew what lay ahead when she returned home. All that mattered now were the promises they had vowed one to the other: vows to last a lifetime. The certificate could come later. It was only a formality after all.
Summer 1944
It rained all the way home from the station, and being a Sunday there were no familiar vehicles trundling up the coast road from Kirkcudbright so it was shanks’s pony all the way home. Netta stood under the lean-to like a drowned rat, not sure whether her return warranted ringing the front door bell. Better to press it and wait. But what if they barred the door on her? The drips from her felt hat plopped on to the end of her nose and her mac felt limp and sodden.
Peg stood back at the sight of the soaking girl. ‘Look what the tide’s washed in, Angus… So you’ve come back, have you, now the deed is done? I don’t know what you think yer playin’ at my girl. You gave us the fright of our lives, running off like that. Yer faither’s fair off his head with worry, just a note – is that all he’s worth, after all he’s done for you over the years? I don’t know how you’ve got the cheek to stroll back here! What dae you think people will think when we tell them you ran away with a sojer? One that hasnae even the guts to stand and face the music at yer side! Oh, Nettie, I’m ashamed of you.’
‘Rae wanted to come and explain, honest, but his leave was up. He’ll come next week after…’ Netta stopped herself. No one must know about their blunder or why he must return. ‘We’re going to Dumfries to get the wedding ring we ordered. It didn’t come in time,’ she lied. ‘Am I allowed in the now or shall I walk back to the station?’
‘Ach away in. Is there anything else we should be knowing?’ Peg peered at her intently. ‘Better to know the worst.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You ken fine what I mean, lassie. Why the rush?’
Netta smiled with relief. ‘Nothing like that, I promise. Rae’s not like that.’
‘All soldiers is like that given half the chance,’ glowered her father from the doorway, eyeing her up and down. ‘You’ve an awful lot to answer to my satisfaction, my lady. Yer own mother would turn in her grave to see the way you’ve treated us – running away like thieves in the night and you only knowing him five minutes. I just hope you know what you’ve got yersel’ into. Couldn’t you both have respect for each other, control yourselves and wait until this war’s over like sensible human beings? Not rush to the altar like two dogs on heat! Was it one of they Register Office jobbies then?
Netta bowed her head and said nothing, letting him continue with his assumptions.
‘So off you pop to some little backstreet room. Not very elevating, to marry in some poky corner. Nae music, nae Minister and nae family: a right hole-in-the-wall affair! So where’s your marriage lines then?’ He held out his hand.
‘Give me a minute to dry off, I’m soaked through. This is the two-piece I made and my ring belonged to Rae’s mother, isn’t it lovely? I told you, the wedding band is ordered.’ The girl shoved her left hand in Peg’s face for her to admire the moonstones and diamond chips.
‘Opals is unlucky stones in my book,’ sniffed Peg. ‘They crack awful easy so you’d better leave it off if you want them to last.’ Netta drew back her hand quickly. She was not going to be parted from her ring.
She climbed the stairs to her bedroom, to the familiar bed and tailor’s dummy, the sewing machine, her farm dungarees. She smiled to herself. It had gone better than she’d expected. Lots of puff and smoke but the door was not barred and that was a relief. They had accepted her story. If she was married, however hurriedly, she was decent in everyone’s eyes, and in Stratharvar appearances mattered.
She looked at herself in the dressing-table mirror: a pinched pink face with freckles dotted over her nose and cheeks, damp hair gone into a frizz. Was that a liar’s face looking back at her now? she thought. No! In the eyes of God she was truly married, the blacksmith priest had said as much. The truth lay in their hearts, not on paper. She stared back at herself with a big sigh.
‘Bestir thyself, Nettie Thimble, back to plain clothes and porridge, muck and shovels. Keep them sweet and keep busy.’ Saturday week would soon come around, and as for her marriage lines, she had a plan to scotch that problem.
She ran to the top of the stairs and cried down, ‘Oh, losh! I cannae find my lines or my birth certificate. I must have left them at the digs or on the station. They’re not in my bag or my case. What shall I do?’
She started to wail with such a noise the farmhands rushed into the yard to see what the racket was about.
‘Are you sure your hubby’s not got them, hen?’ shouted one from the kitchen door. Netta played to the gallery with her sniffles and frenzy until Father himself waved his hand. ‘You can ring the Office and get another copy. Don’t get yerself in such a fankle!’
‘No, I’ll wait and see if they’re handed in. I can use my old ration book here but I wanted everyone to know I’m Mrs Hunter.’
‘Tell the postie then. He’s better than any notice in the Galloway News. Either way the whole district’ll soon know yer business, Netta. Go to the Food Office, they’ll give you advice. It’s only a slip of paper and can easily be replaced.’
Netta nodded and sniffed and her heart leaped with relief.
*
It was to be one of the longest weeks of her life. Time dragged by so slowly when each second she kept looking at her wrist watch to check it hadn’t stopped. Peg and Father were being understanding for once, not quizzing her, relieved she was back from her holiday in England: the official vers
ion of her first disappearance. Then the story changed to a surprise wedding before her husband went abroad, and a trip next week to Dumfries to see him off down south. The news was whispered from shop to farm to kirk and back. Angus drove her into town to catch the train and Netta dressed in her last pair of silk stockings and her new rigout. The necklace she had returned sheepishly to the bottom drawer, hoping it had not been missed.
The train was held up outside Dumfries by troop movements. Convoys of soldiers were piling into compartments, heading south with kitbags and cheery waves out of windows to anything in a skirt. She searched for the familiar bonnets of the Borderers, for the Lenzie tartan, patch on the sleeve, searching for one kent face among the crowds. No one could find anyone else in this crush and Rae had not promised to come to Dumfries anyway. There was just time to collect the thin gold band from the second-hand jeweller’s before she took a bus to Gretna Green village.
It was a slow journey, following the convoys of trucks and armoured vehicles with soldiers hanging from the sides, waving to passers-by. Now there was plenty of time to take in her surroundings properly. The first time she had been too excited to notice a thing. She followed the outline of the Solway coast, peering into cottage windows and farms and schools on her journey south. Gretna Green was renowned the whole world over for runaway marriages. It was ideally situated between England and Scotland for lovers to take advantage of the Scottish law that allowed marriage at sixteen without parental consent. This cluster of cottages, a church and hotel and railway station, was all there was to the village, but it had been the centre of drama and intrigue for hundreds of years. She looked again at the blacksmith’s shop and smiled. They must have a photograph taken outside to prove they’d done it the old way!