Moorland Mist

by Gwen Kirkwood

  ‘Good God!’ William muttered, his eyes widening. ‘When is the baby due? Did she say?’

  ‘She had no idea. I’m no expert on such matters but from what I know of Agnes and Bessie I should think June or July.’

  William knew better than anyone how innocent Emma had been.

  ‘I feel sick at heart and so sorry for Emma,’ Maggie went on in troubled tones. ‘She seemed bewildered. Mother was dreadfully harsh. She told her to pack her bags and get out. We were in the middle of washing blankets.’

  ‘So much for the milk o’ human kindness,’ Jim muttered. ‘Sometimes I think morals are all that matter to Mother.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ William said again. ‘It’s …’

  ‘What are you all doing in here?’ Mary Sinclair demanded, pushing open the pantry door. Her eyes moved from one to the other of her three remaining offspring. Her own face was pale and strained. She had liked Emma Greig and she wondered where she had failed the girl to let her go so far off the straight and narrow. ‘I’ve told you, I will not have that girl mentioned in my house.’ They followed her into the kitchen with varying expressions of exasperation, pity and determination.

  ‘Mother, listen to me,’ William demanded and grasped his mother’s arm, turning her to face him by sheer pressure.

  ‘Come and eat your supper and leave your mother be, William,’ his father commanded sternly. ‘Can’t you see she’s troubled enough?’

  William’s mouth tightened and his own face paled beneath his weathered tan.

  ‘Not as troubled as she’s going to be,’ he muttered through gritted teeth and sat down in his place at the table. He met his father’s eyes unflinchingly. ‘If Emmie is expecting a bairn in June I reckon it’s mine.’

  Maggie caught her mother in her arms and lowered her onto a chair. Her face was chalk white and she was opening her mouth to speak but no words came. She moved her head from side to side in denial. William’s eyes moved from her to his father, who had jumped from his chair and was towering over them.

  ‘You young fool!’ he spat out angrily. ‘Do you see the shock you’ve given your mother? You nearly killed her when you were born; now you’re trying again. The girl was in our employ. She lived under my roof. She should have been safe here.’

  ‘I know, I know …’

  ‘Well!’ Jim muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I never thought you’d play on your own doorstep, Will.’

  ‘It was. I was not er, ’ William broke off. He had no doubt the baby must be his. It had never occurred to him it could be so easy to have a baby. Eva McGuire had never had a child in her life. ‘I must talk to Emma … We must get married.’

  James Sinclair looked at his wife’s white face. He knew Emma’s plight had upset and dismayed her but neither of them had dreamed one of their own sons could be involved. This was ten times worse.

  ‘I refuse to listen,’ Mary Sinclair whispered. ‘I never thought my own son would take advantage of an innocent maid … ’ She began to shake.

  ‘Come, Mother,’ Maggie said gently. ‘You’ve had a shock. Let me help you to bed.’ She drew her mother to her feet and helped her to her bedroom.

  ‘I must talk to Emma,’ William said, watching them leave the kitchen.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do tonight,’ his father said sternly, ‘and I might tell you it’s not a good start to marriage so you’d better think about it.’

  ‘Don’t go out tonight,’ Jim said with concern. ‘If you go anywhere near Emma’s family, those brothers of hers will half-kill you. In fact, it’s a wonder they weren’t up here looking for you last night. You know how protective they are. One of them always saw her back safely when she’s been home.’

  ‘I need to speak with her,’ William insisted.

  ‘Not tonight.’ His father’s tone brooked any argument.

  ‘You know how we’d have felt if somebody had taken advantage of Agnes, or Bess or Maggie,’ Jim said. ‘We’d have pulverised him. You’d be better to go tomorrow when there’s only Emma and her mother at home.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ William muttered, but his thoughts were going round and round. He had no money of his own. James Sinclair had never paid wages to any of his sons but they had all known he would try to establish them in farms when the time was right. William knew there was no hope of his father getting him a farm of his own to rent now, and there were no spare cottages on Bonnybrae. He couldn’t suggest bringing Emma here to live. His mother would never tolerate the scandal. And Emmie, how would she be feeling, cast out without a job?

  It was a strained meal, eaten in silence.

  ‘I’ll speak to you later, William,’ James Sinclair said, pushing his chair away from the table. ‘Don’t go down to the village, nor off to the ploughing in the morning. This affects all of us, whether we like it or not. I hope you realize that,’ he added grimly. ‘If you’re going to marry the lassie you’ll need to put a roof over her head and be able to support a wife and a bairn. We need to decide what’s to be done.’

  Emma’s family were every bit as keen to avoid local gossip and the disgrace of having a bastard child in the family. As soon as she had washed and dressed and eaten a meagre breakfast, her father bid her gather up the clothes she needed.

  ‘You’ll be staying away until the baby is born,’ he said grimly, avoiding his wife’s tear-filled eyes.

  As much as she hated gossip, Eliza loved her daughter and she hated the thought of her going away to stay with Vera. She busied herself making them a pack of sandwiches to eat on the journey. Emma had never even seen a train, let alone ridden on one, and in different circumstances she would have been excited. She remembered Uncle Dick visiting them often when she was a child but they had hardly seen him since he married and went to work in a village nearer Glasgow. As for her Aunt Vera, she had only met her once and she knew her mother and aunt didn’t get on.

  She had slept almost round the clock, and in spite of her bewilderment at the sudden changes in her life, there remained a small fount of happiness deep inside her which nothing could quench.

  They were not expected, and when Bert Greig arrived at the door of his brother’s cottage after a four mile walk from the railway station, he thought Vera was going to shut the door in their faces. He had not even had a chance to explain the situation or ask for their help at that stage. Fortunately Dick and the worker from the adjoining cottage were coming up the road, and he almost ran the last few yards in his joy at seeing them. Vera scowled.

  ‘Ye’d best come in then,’ she said ungraciously, ‘but if ye’re expecting me to make ye a meal ye’re barking up the wrong tree. Arriving here and not so much as a letter to warn folks.’

  ‘Och Vera, dinna be like that,’ Dick pleaded. ‘We’ve plenty eggs and milk, and there’s the piece o’ bacon Mistress Donnelly sent up yesterday. Ah but it’s good to see ye, Bertie.’ He clapped his older brother on the back and grinned widely. ‘And this’ll be wee Emma? My, ye’ve grown into a fine-looking young woman since last I saw ye.’ He smiled at her then called to three grubby children playing in the garden. ‘Hi, you lot, come and say hello to your Uncle Bert and cousin Emma.’

  The three children came running, eager to hug their father around his legs, but they were shy when he introduced them.

  ‘Millie is nine and Bobby is seven. They go to school in the village. Peter is four so he will go to school next year.’

  Emma bent down to greet them and Dick’s eyes widened as her dress pulled tightly across the swelling of her stomach. Emma liked children but she was already feeling homesick. The cottage was much the same as her own home but it was dirty and the smell of stale cooking turned her stomach even before they stepped through the door. All three children smelled of urine and their hair needed to be washed. Over their heads she met her father’s eyes briefly before he looked hastily away. She saw him gnaw his lip and she wanted to cry, ‘Take me home with you, Dad,’ but she swallowed hard and lifted her chin. Since yesterday
morning, she felt she had aged twenty years. At least she knew how to keep a clean house and how to cook and mend and be thrifty. She had Mrs Sinclair and Maggie to thank for that.

  While the children led her shyly into the dark kitchen, her father and Uncle Dick moved out of earshot down to the garden and she knew her father was explaining her situation and making arrangements for her to stay. They had had a railway carriage to themselves for most of the journey and he had explained what was to happen.

  ‘I’ve saved nearly all my wages. I will pay for my keep,’ she said when she understood. She was amazed to see tears shine in her father’s eyes before he blinked and looked away.

  ‘Emmie, you’ve always been such a good lassie. I still can’t believe … Tell us who the father is and we’ll deal with him.’ But Emma pursed her lips and shook her head. Her father sighed heavily. ‘Well, I’ll pay Vera. She’ll get her pound o’ flesh out of both of us if I ken her, but try to put up with her, for all our sakes, because I canna think what else to do. We have to live in the village and the lads will suffer from the gossip if they hear what’s happened to you.’

  ‘I know. I dinna want to be a burden. Maybe I’ll be able to earn my keep.’

  ‘If I know Vera, she’ll see ye do that anyway,’ he said glumly, ‘and she’ll take my money and ask for more. You keep your own money safe. You’ll need it before you can get back to another job.’

  Her father had explained things but he had omitted to tell her the baby would be taken from her, and sent to an orphanage so that she would be able to earn her living again.

  William was keen to see Emma without further delay. He had been so busy ploughing all day in the far field he hadn’t even known the day she’d left Bonnybrae and he’d gone to plough before the rest had come in from the milking yesterday. This was the third day she’d been gone. He wondered how she was bearing up. He was not afraid of her brothers. He knew he deserved their anger.

  He ate his breakfast quickly and waited impatiently for his father to say whatever he had on his mind before he went down to Locheagle. He was surprised when his parents came into the kitchen together, his father supporting his mother. He knew she was anaemic but she looked deathly white and there were dark rings beneath her eyes.

  ‘Your mother and I have talked things over,’ his father began sternly, ‘and we don’t need to tell you how disappointed we are, aye and disgusted that you have taken advantage of a young maid under our roof. There’ll be no end to the scandal, whatever we do. Whether you marry the girl or not, folks have long memories. They’ll never let her forget her shame, or your part in it.’

  William wanted to cut him short and tell his father he had gone over and over all this in his mind but he held his tongue, his head bowed.

  ‘You’ve always wanted the adventure of a train journey to see your relations in Yorkshire. We’ve decided that’s the best thing for you to do now. I’ll send them a wire and you’ll go tomorrow. The sooner you’re away from the district the better for all of us.’

  William’s head jerked up.

  ‘Wh-what do you mean? Go tomorrow? This will not go away even if I stayed away for a month. There’ll be a bairn. Mine. People will still talk when I come back.’

  ‘You’ll not be coming back. You’ll have a hundred pounds. That will be your share and you can count yourself lucky. It’s up to you to make your own way in the world now.’

  William gasped, then he looked at his mother. She was sitting straight backed as always but she was still as a statue, her grey hair tightly drawn back into a severe bun and topped by her white cap. Only her hands gave away her agitation, clasped tightly together.

  ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘Well, if that’s what you want, but to leave so soon …’

  ‘There’s no use delaying,’ his father interrupted harshly. ‘Whether you send for Emma when you’ve found work and a place to live, it will be up to you. We’ll send on a trunk with your belongings when you give us an address. I shall send the wire off to cousin Andrew today. You’ll go into Glasgow with the milk train tomorrow morning. You should be able to get a train south from there on the Glasgow and South Western Railway.’

  ‘I see,’ William said. His family were putting him out. He rose and went out of the back door. Maggie followed soon after. He guessed she had been in the pantry and overheard everything when he saw her strained face and the tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, William …’ She came towards him and hugged him tightly, as she had when he was a small boy. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go, and so soon … so far away.’

  ‘I must go down to the village and see if they’ll let me talk to Emma,’ he said. ‘I’ve made a mess of both our lives, it seems.’

  ‘I’ll come with you. I never got to say goodbye to Emmie. I can go to the door first and see who is at home. They may be more likely to let me speak to her. We got on so well.’ Her mouth trembled.

  ‘All right, if you want to see her anyway. We’ll take the trap. If I’m to leave tomorrow there’s things I need to do first.’

  It was Mrs Greig who answered the door to Maggie’s knock. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed as though she had been weeping before she answered the door.

  ‘Can – can I speak to Emma please, Mrs Greig?’ she asked in her gentle voice.

  ‘Oh, Miss Maggie, it’s you,’ the older woman said tearfully. ‘Emmie’s not here. Her father took her away yesterday to stay with his brother and his wife and children. He didna want the folks in the village tae ken the shame she’s in. He says I’m not to tell her brothers but I dinna think I’ll be able to keep it from them. They’ll want to know why she’s not been home on her day off.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Greig, I’m so sorry …’ Maggie said helplessly, near to tears herself.

  ‘I know it’s a shameful thing she’s done but I hate to think of her away among strangers and having the bairn and – and everything.’ The tears came freely now. ‘M-my sister-in-law, sh-she’s not a kindly woman. Emma wouldna tell us who the father is so we think he must be married already.’ In her distress she didn’t notice Maggie catch her breath. ‘Bert says the babe will have to go to an orphanage or into the care of the nuns.’

  ‘Oh no, no!’

  ‘She’ll need to earn her living, Miss Maggie. And he says nobody wants an unmarried woman with a bairn at her skirts.’

  ‘I–I didn’t manage to say goodbye to Emma, Mrs Greig and—’

  ‘She often told us how kind ye were to her, Miss Maggie, and I was grateful for that.’

  ‘Could you give me her address so that I might write to her, please?’

  ‘You still want to write to her, Miss Maggie?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I don’t think she knew the risk …’

  ‘That would be good of ye. I reckon she’ll need a few kind words frae somebody, for she’ll get none frae her Aunt Vera. I’ll write down the address for ye.’

  Maggie felt a hypocrite. What would the Greigs say when they found out her own brother was the father? She shuddered. Emmie was very loyal. It was more than William deserved.

  William was growing impatient and on the point of tying up the pony and joining Maggie when he saw her hurrying down the garden path.

  ‘Can I speak to Emma now?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘She’s not here. Her father has taken her away to his brother’s house near Glasgow. They’re as concerned about scandal as our own parents. Emma told me they go to the Kirk every week.’ William winced. He had never for a moment considered such consequences when he had taken Emmie up to the Torr.

  ‘When I have work and a place to live I can send for her, but I need to get in touch.’

  ‘I’ve got her address. They have no idea you are the father, though. Emma refused to tell them. Mr Greig says the baby will have to go into an orphanage or into the care of the nuns when it’s born.’

  ‘What? They can’t do that …’

  ‘Poor Emma. She loved the collie pups and she didn’t want to pa
rt with them so I can imagine how upset she will be at the thought of parting from her own child. You must promise to keep in touch and let me have your address as soon as you have one, William. Meanwhile, I think you should let me write to Emma until we know whether she receives the letters or not. Mrs Greig doesn’t seem to trust her sister-in-law. She sounds a horrid woman so I shall be careful what I say.’

  ‘Thank you, Maggie. I know you must feel as ashamed as Mother does but at least you’re willing to help.’

  ‘I always liked Emma and I know she was not a bad girl. She was ignorant about many things. You’re far from blameless.’

  ‘I know,’ William said wearily, ‘but I’ve given myself enough lectures, not to mention the way Mother and Father are going on. I feel like a leper, or as though I’ve committed murder.’

  ‘Emmie may not have been the woman you would have chosen but she’ll make a good wife with a little help. You’ve always wanted to be in control of everything so perhaps it is as well to have someone younger who will not resent you giving orders.’

  William glanced at her and saw a faint smile on her lips. He sighed.

  ‘You’re the only one who is trying to see some good in this sorry mess,’ he said. His lips tightened and he lifted his chin. ‘I’ll show everybody yet. I don’t intend to be a worker all my life. I shall look for a farm to rent at the first opportunity.’

  ‘I think Father knows that, and I’m sure he believes you will do the right thing by Emma too. It is Mother who doesn’t want you to contact her. I heard her saying should the baby be born dead then no one need know.’

  ‘Born dead!’ William gasped. ‘Sometimes I wonder if Mother has a heart.’

  Six

  Even in her worst nightmares Emma could not have believed it was possible to be so unhappy. She was bewildered by the way her life had turned upside down, yet deep within her there was a little well of hope, even joy, which even Aunt Vera could not quench. She continually told her she was a gullible little fool and what did she expect when she had played with fire. As soon as Uncle Dick left the house to go to work, her day became one long rant from Vera. She was used to being up early and to working hard. Everyone at Bonnybrae, with the exception of Mrs Sinclair, had worked the whole day long so it was not the washing and scrubbing and mending which made her miserable. In fact, she longed to bring some sort of order and cleanliness to the smelly little cottage. It was Aunt Vera calling her awful names which made her unhappy, especially when Peter repeated them. He was too young to understand and she didn’t always understand either.