The Nickum

by Doris Davidson

  Willie toyed for a second with the idea of telling her Tibby’s joke about a verger, but decided against it. His mother would definitely not see the funny side of that.

  The next day was Friday, so Willie deliberately kept away from anywhere near the Meldrums’ house. He didn’t want to see Millie, especially when he hadn’t arranged to meet her, and she could be home for the weekend some time today. He asked his mother to make a few sandwiches for him and he filled a flask with tea, then spent an hour cleaning his bike. He had to get away by himself. He had to think things through, without interference from outside, and that included his parents and Millie. Especially Millie.

  As he pedalled off in the opposite direction from her house, he reminded himself that he had made a big mistake on the night before he had to report to Woolmanhill, a couple of months ago now, and had been very lucky to get off Scot free. If he had made her pregnant that night, it would have been the end of her career, the end of his peace of mind, and the only way to prevent it happening again – as they were so often told in the lectures they got – was celibacy. No hanky-panky. No letting your dick rule your heart, as one officer had so basically expressed it.

  Recalling the man who had said it, Willie wondered if the old codger had ever been in love with a woman. It didn’t seem likely, otherwise he wouldn’t imply that celibacy was easy. It certainly wouldn’t be easy for William Fowlie. It was the other way round with him; his heart seemed to rule his dick, though that probably made no difference.

  He cycled on for quite a while, deliberately avoiding the Cooper Burn or Carter Loch. He had no wish to revive impossible-to-be-repeated memories. He did find an ideal place; a little dell on the fringe of a wood, where he could sit – or lie if the mood took him – in perfect solitude and peace amid the firs and larches.

  Having spent most of the night trying to come to some decision about his life, he dozed off minutes after lying back with his jacket as a pillow, and woke up quite some time later, refreshed and ready to face anything. Yes, it would be best to steer clear of Millie Meldrum until the war was over. The way things had been, he couldn’t concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing, and, for a soldier, particularly a Gordon Highlander, that was no good. He had to be alert at all times, ready to repel invaders, ready to be sent abroad to face the enemy, just ready for anything. If only they would send him overseas, it would be so much easier, but no doubt that would come – eventually.

  When he went back, things could have completely changed, although the battalion surely wouldn’t go overseas without him? No, no, that was impossible, unthinkable. He had a duty to carry out, and God himself wouldn’t stop him.

  He gave an abrupt laugh. What was he going on about? He had only just passed his initial training, so he wouldn’t be sent overseas for a good while yet.

  Feeling quite hungry now, he fished in his haversack for his sandwiches, removed the cup from the flask and filled it with tea. He thoroughly enjoyed his solitary picnic; his appetite had come back since he’d made his decision, his day had not been wasted. He could make another round of visits to old friends; he’d face them now with a clear conscience. He hadn’t yet gone to see Johnny McIntyre, and he might chance going to the Meldrums; he could tell them that, although he loved Millie with every fibre of his being, he thought it would be best not to see her until the war was over. It would make things easier for everyone.

  A heavy burden having been taken from his shoulders, he took a walk, stopping here and there to watch the wildlife, the rabbits, the birds, none of whom had any knowledge of humans and were all the more friendly because of it. At one point, even a deer came near him, not quite up to him, just keeping abreast of him as he went along the edge of a burn. The hind was so lovely, he wished that he had a camera, her huge eyes regarding him shyly, her head erect, but very, very timid. If he made the slightest move towards her, she slewed away until she felt safe and then inched her way back. He was so amused by this that he made several feints, but she tumbled to his trickery and stood her ground.

  ‘Good for you, lass,’ he crooned, holding out his hand to her, but she gave a small whinny and ignored it. A noise from inside the wood made her turn slowly and pad away, leaving him wondering if her lord and master was waiting for her. The thought that a rampant stag might have appeared at any moment and attacked him for dallying with his mate was not at all pleasant, and he thanked his lucky stars that he had not been the target of a charge.

  This episode seemed to him to be a good omen for the future, and he wandered back to his picnic site slowly, to prepare for taking the road again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was inclined to be drizzly the following morning; the sky grey and forbidding, the wind, as Jake put it, ‘Ower lazy to gan roon’ you, so it gans richt through you.’ Considering what would be his best option, Willie plumped for doing some more visiting. It would be better than being cooped up in the house all day and having to answer his mother’s scarcely veiled questions about his relationship with Millie. Closely wrapped up in his heavy greatcoat and cap with its ‘Bydand’ badge well up for show, he opened the door and prepared to step outside.

  ‘You’re not going out in your bare legs in this weather?’ Emily demanded. ‘You’ll catch your death of cold. Put on a pair of trousers, for any sake.’

  His forced sigh, short and vehement, showed his annoyance. ‘I tried on all the three pairs I had, and none of them fit me any more. I was like a sack of tatties tied in the middle and I’d have died of strangulation before I’d got as far as the road.’

  ‘Would a pair of your father’s not fit you?’

  ‘Ach, just leave me, Mam. I’m not a kid now, and I stopped wearing hand-me-downs ages ago.’

  ‘Don’t expect me to dance attendance on you, then, if you land up with a chill.’

  ‘Cheerio, Mam.’

  He strode out, closing the door behind him with perhaps a little more force than was necessary, and coming off the track on to the road, turned in the direction of Wester Burnton. If he saw Johnny McIntyre on his way there he would stop and have a news with him, and then go on to the farmhouse, for Mrs McIntyre had always been very kind to him. Breathing the caller air deep into his lungs, he felt on top of the world, not exactly master of all he surveyed, more like renewing acquaintance with every blade of grass, every stone, every tree – not that there were many trees, for the Buchan area of north-east Scotland had been blasted by strong winds for so many centuries that in some parts only a few stunted examples remained. Of course, there were woods in other parts, grand examples of a glory that once was, but the most interesting bits to him were the standing stones, from which archaelogists could prove that life in quite an advanced form had been present here for thousands of years.

  ‘Hey, Willie!’

  He started in surprise, so immersed in his own thoughts that he hadn’t seen the two men in the field he was passing. ‘Aye, Mr McIntyre,’ he called back.

  ‘You’re hame for a whilie, then?’

  ‘I go back on Monday.’

  ‘I’d like fine to ha’e a wee blether wi’ you, loon, but I’m real busy the noo. I tell you what, though, you go in and ha’e a few words wi’ the wife. You and her aye got on fine, and I should be in aboot half twelve. We can ha’e a drappie denner then I’ll tak’ you farever you want.’

  ‘That suits me, Mr McIntyre.’

  ‘Godamichty, loon. I stopped bein’ Mister McIntyre years ago, and I maistly gets cried Wester, and sometimes, jist WB. The younger generation dinna show ony respect to aulder fowk, though there’s nae mony left nooadays.’

  Walking towards the farmhouse, Willie thought over this last remark. The war had certainly brought changes to the workers, but he hadn’t given a thought to how it had affected the bosses. He’d heard tales of the farmers making pots of money by growing the crops they were told to grow by the Ministry of Agriculture, and good luck to them, but he hadn’t remembered that most of the young men, the fit, the willing, h
ad been taken by the War Ministry and that it would be the older, unfit, willing but not so able, that were the mainstay of the farming communities, helped by the under-eighteens.

  Cutting off a corner by vaulting a drystane dyke, he made his way more circumspectly to the back door of the farmhouse, where Maggie McIntyre exclaimed with delight, ‘Willie Fowlie! Now you’re a sicht for sair een.’

  She bade him come in, settled him on a wooden chair and filled a large enamel mug with tea that she assured him was freshly made, and its taste proved her claim. She didn’t quiz him in the way his mother had, but he found himself telling her things he hadn’t told Emily, and, following that, she acquainted him with facts about the locals that his mother had never mentioned; indeed, perhaps did not even know.

  Before they knew it, the farmer was in for his dinner, although he was more inclined towards asking what Willie’s basic training had consisted of. At last, he said, ‘My God, it’s half three already, and I’ve still got a few thingies to finish, but if you can hang aboot for an ’oor or so, I’ll run you hame.’

  ‘No, you’re fine. I’ll easily manage to walk.’

  ‘Go roon’ and ha’e a chat wi’ my new milkmaid, an’ I’ll nae be lang.’

  Willie interpreted the twinkle in the eyes of both the man and his wife as evidence of the new milkmaid being either a raving young beauty or a decrepit old hag, but was certainly not prepared for the person he saw cleaning out pails and jugs at the big sink in the dairy. ‘Oh, it’s you, eh …’

  He never knew how to address the poor man, for he didn’t want to call him ‘Daftie’ like the men used to do. ‘Are you helping the new milkmaid?’

  The tired old eyes brightened a little. ‘It’s Willie, isn’t it?’ He gave a little chuckle. ‘Nae milkmaid. Jist me.’

  ‘You must be the milkmaid, then. That’s good. You must be real proud of that?’

  ‘Aye, real prood. Mester Mac says I’m daein’ a grand job, and the wife says the same.’

  Willie felt a shiver of horror going through him. Surely this man hadn’t taken a wife? Who on earth would have him, anyway? Fortunately, before he said anything, it occurred to the young man that he meant the farmer’s wife. Trying to find a solution to the name business, he phrased his next question carefully, leading up to what he wanted to know. ‘You’ll be missing Malcie, I suppose? Now he’s in the army.’

  ‘In the war.’ The old man nodded. ‘Nae my war. Your war.’

  ‘That’s right. What were you in the last war? What did they call you?’

  With an obvious great effort, the old man stood to attention, his right arm up in a smart salute. ‘564351 Corporal MacLauchlan, L., sir. Rank, name and number, that’s all.’ His body caved in once more, his eyes lost their momentary illumination.

  ‘Fancy you remembering that,’ Willie said, honestly impressed. ‘What did your fellow soldiers call you? You see, I need to know what name I should give you.’

  ‘Lachie, maistly.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Short for McLaughlan?’

  ‘No, my name is Lachie – Lachlan McLaughlan, corporal in the Seaforths.’

  Willie was astonished, but the flash of lucidity had completely gone, and the old man’s next words were, ‘Poopie’s awa’ an’ a’.’

  The impediment that usually came into Willie’s throat at any mention of his old friend almost choked him, but he managed a slight nod.

  ‘A richt quiet loon, Poopie.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ Get yourself out of this hole, he told himself. ‘Do you like being a milkmaid, Lachie? Do you take in the cows and milk them, as well? And what about the butter?’

  ‘The wife still mak’s the butter. I separate the cream for her, then she churns it, and I tak’ the buttermilk. A’ the wives like buttermilk for makin’ scones an’ pancakes.’

  ‘Mrs Mac’s a real hardworking woman, but I’d have thought she’d enough to do in the farmhouse, without making the butter, as well.’

  ‘Aye, Mester Mac’s aye gettin’ on till her – daein’ ower muckle.’

  Much to Willie’s relief, ‘Mr Mac’ came round the corner at that moment. ‘What d’you think o’ my milkmaid, then?’

  Willie smiled. ‘Lachie’s better than any young lassie, I’ll say that. Well, cheerio, Lachie, I’ll see you next time I’m hame.’

  In the car, McIntyre said, ‘He’s good, but why Lachie? Where did you hear that? It suits him.’

  ‘It’s his real name. Lachlan McLaughlan. He told me he was a corporal in the Seaforths.’

  ‘McLaughlan? Aye, there’s something familiar aboot that. I was only a bairn when he came to work for my father, but by the time he came back from the war – and it was a year or so efter the Armistice for he’d been in some kind o’ home – Father had died and the name never came up. As you ken, a lot of folk ca’ him the Daftie, but he’s nae so daft.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He surprised me right enough.’

  McIntyre drew in to a quiet spot for a few minutes, for a ‘blether’, but mostly about how his workers had been called up, or had volunteered, and how difficult it was to find replacements. ‘Damn near impossible,’ he said, vehemently. ‘And the worst o’ it is, nae a’ the men’ll come back. Oh, loon, I’m sorry. I shouldna be saying things like that to you.’ He switched on the engine again, and drove the short distance to the cottar houses. ‘Look after yourself, Willie,’ he said, letting his passenger out, ‘and jist remember this. Never volunteer for onything.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ Willie smiled, having made up his own mind weeks ago that the only way to get on would be to volunteer for everything that was offered.

  His mother, of course, wanted to know where he had been and was quite surpriseed that he had spent a whole day at the farmhouse. ‘You’re hardly ever here,’ she complained. ‘Your own father and mother, but you’d rather be speaking to strangers.’

  Jake’s brows went down. ‘Go easy, lass. He did spend his first few days here, and tell’t you everything you wanted to ken. He needs different company sometimes, an’ he still hasna been to see the Meldrums. Millie’s been hame since Friday nicht, an’ she aye gans back on the Sunday efterneens, so you’d best see her the morra mornin’.’

  ‘To be honest, Dad,’ Willie said, uncomfortably, ‘I’d rather not see her.’

  Emily opened her mouth, obviously with the intention of asking why, but Jake stepped in. ‘It’s up to you, of coorse, but I’d advise you to think aboot it.’

  Willie did think about it. He puzzled over it all night, longing to see the girl he loved with all his heart, aching to hold her in his arms, but afraid that in his lust, he would hurt her, or even worse, bairn her, as the Burnton women would say. Either way, she would probably want nothing more to do with him. No, it was better not to place himself within reach of such temptation.

  He still hadn’t gone to see the minister, but he’d be busy on a Sunday morning, so that call would have to wait until afternoon. He had promised to call in to Tibby Grant again if he had time, and he should really go and see Gramma Fowlie. Yes, that’s where he should go.

  Looking out from the skylight in his small upstairs bedroom on the Sunday morning, the weather did not look all that promising, but Willie would have gone out if it had been lashing rain or drifting snow, even a Force 9 gale. As it happened, by the time he had washed and shaved and had his breakfast, the sun was making a fair attempt at shining, the grey sky had almost cleared. Emily was already dressed in her Sunday clothes, Jake was polishing his Sunday boots, both obviously going to church. Willie knew that his mother was half expecting him to join them, but he just wasn’t in a churchy mood, and as he sat down at the table, he said, ‘I promised Gramma I’d go and see her, so I may as well go. It’s a fine day for a walk, and she’ll be looking for me.’ He noticed his mother drawing in her lips, but she said nothing.

  It was Jake who said, as he took his greatcoat off the hook on the kitchen door, ‘Will you be hame for your dinner?’

  Emily seemed
to come to a decision. ‘I’ve a whole pot of stew and carrots. If you wait a minute, I’ll put enough in the flagon to do you and your Gramma.’

  ‘Thanks, Mam, that’ll be great. I should think I’ll be home for my tea, though.’

  His father winked at him in satisfaction as he went out carrying the container inside a shopping basket, where it sat quite steadily.

  He spent all forenoon with Mina Fowlie, whose body was beginning to cause problems – legs unable to walk more than a step or two, feet crippled by corns and bunions, knees that creaked as she walked, hands curled by arthritis – but there was nothing wrong with her tongue, and she chatted away twenty to the dozen, laying bare her neighbours’ secret romances that were the talk of the place, the rumours of somebody’s sticky fingers that everyone knew about except the police, the row between the kirk organist and the leader of the choir. He didn’t know any of the people, but he found her way of telling the stories very amusing, and the pair of them chuckled like mischievous schoolkids.

  Just before twelve o’clock, which he knew was her regular dinnertime, he emptied the flagon of stew into a pot and heated it on the fire – she still hadn’t had gas or electricity installed – and they sat down to eat at only a few minutes past the hour. ‘I havena any tatties,’ she had told him earlier, ‘for I was gan to ha’e cheese and breid, but I got a new pan loaf fae the baker’s van yesterday, so we can ha’e a chunk o’ that to dry up the gravy.’

  Anyone not acquainted with the niceties of the Doric tongue might think breid and loaf are the same thing, and so it can be at times, but in this case, Willie knew that by breid his grandmother meant oatcakes, which spread with butter made an ideal accompaniment to the crowdie cheese made on most of the farms. She made him cut two ‘doorstep’ slices from the loaf, thick slices that they broke with their fingers to soak up the gravy.