Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘Charlie,’ Amy said carefully, gambling on his mellow mood. ‘It might… it might be a girl this time.’

  Charlie dropped the paper on his lap and looked at her in astonishment. ‘A girl? What do I want with a girl child? What use would that be on the farm?’

  ‘No use at all, I suppose. But it might be one anyway. I’ve had two boys now, it can’t keep on being boys forever.’

  ‘I never thought of it being a girl child. Do you think you’re carrying a girl?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think you can tell. I just wanted to sort of… well, warn you. I hope it’ll be another boy, really I do.’ And it was true. A girl would try to take the place in her heart that would always be Ann’s, and Amy feared she would resent the child instead of giving her the love she deserved. It had been hard enough learning to love Malcolm; if she had a daughter she could not be sure of winning the struggle.

  ‘A girl,’ Charlie repeated. His look of amazement slowly faded as the notion settled into his mind. ‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm if this one’s a girl,’ he said at last. ‘There’s plenty of time for more boys. If it’s a girl you can name it,’ he added as he took up his newspaper again.

  ‘Thank you,’ Amy said in surprise. It was a gift; the only one he had ever given her, and Amy at once felt she wanted to give him something in return. She thought for a moment, then asked, ‘What was your mother’s name, Charlie?’

  ‘Eh?’ He looked up from the paper, and a faraway expression spread over his face. ‘Her name was… Margaret. Yes, that was it, Margaret. Maggie, they used to call her. I remember her standing in the doorway and calling out to me to come in for supper, holding a wee bairn in her arms. She was tall and straight, and she had blue eyes. And they killed her,’ he ended bitterly.

  Amy gave a start. ‘Wh-what? Who killed her, Charlie?’

  ‘The bloody English,’ Charlie spat. ‘Called themselves Scots—called themselves clan chiefs—they never came near the Highlands till they decided to play farmer. There was only one sort of clansman they wanted, and that was the four-footed clansman.’

  ‘What’s a four-footed clansman?’

  ‘Sheep. Bloody Cheviot sheep. That was the way to make easy money—run thousands of sheep on the hills. Only trouble was, there were people on that land. Good, honest clansmen—my father’s family had worked that land time out of mind— and loyal to the chief—my mother and father both had grandfathers out in the ’45.’ That meant the Jacobite rebellion of 1745, Amy knew; though she suspected Charlie would not allow it to be called a rebellion. ‘That lot weren’t going to let that stop them. “Pack your belongings and get out,” the steward said. Then him and his men set fire to the cottages so there’d be no going back—never even gave us time to get our things out before they threw in the torches. There was one old woman still in hers when they burned it, I remember my father saying. Our land. It was ours, and they took it away from us,’ Charlie said in a voice raw with outraged loss. ‘My father had no bit of paper to say it was his—the lairds had the paper. They kicked us off our land as if we were animals—no, they treated animals better. They treated the sheep better! Every time I cut a ewe’s throat I tell myself it’s the Countess of Sutherland.’

  Amy shivered at the force of his hatred as he spoke about things she had scarcely even heard of, despite her own Scottish blood. History at school had meant English history, and had rarely strayed north of the border; certainly it had never discussed anything critical of the country most of Amy’s classmates were taught by their parents to call ‘Home’. Part of her wanted to stop him before he got himself in too much of a state, but the story held a horrible fascination. ‘What did your family do? Where did you go?’

  ‘We walked. We carried what we could—what we’d pulled out of the cottage before they torched it. My mother carried the little girl, and my father and me what our backs would bear. We walked and walked. I don’t know how far, or how long it took. I only remember the walking, sleeping in the fields at night, my father putting his coat over Ma and the girl when it rained. She was far gone with child, bigger than you are now.’ He frowned in thought. ‘She seemed old. She was grey and worn-looking, and bowed down instead of erect like she used to be. She can’t have been as old as all that, though, not to be still bearing.

  ‘We got to some port. I don’t know where it was, my father never spoke of it after. We got to within sight of it, then her pains came on. Too early, she said it was, but the walking was too much for her. She lay down in the dirt of the road and cried out with the pain. There were other women, they helped her. Someone took me off, but I could still hear her. For a while, anyway.’ He fell silent.

  ‘The poor, poor woman,’ Amy murmured, hardly noticing the tears streaming down her face. ‘You must have been very young.’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Five or six, maybe. They said some dirt got in her, she got some childbed ailment with a fancy name.’ He gave a bitter snort. ‘Not that she had a bed to give birth in, nor one to die in. She died in a field by the road. Some woman took the baby, but it only lived a day.’

  ‘So you and your father—and your little sister—left Scotland?’

  ‘Aye. There was nothing for us there any more. We went to Canada, the whole village on the one boat. The girl died on the way. She wasn’t strong enough for that boat.’ He shuddered at memories he chose not to speak of. ‘There was work in Canada, and the chance of land. Cutting forests, that was good work for a strong man. Till one day the blade slipped in the sawmill. Took off my father’s arm, and he bled to death while we watched.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie! Who looked after you? Who took care of you?’

  ‘Care?’ he repeated, looking puzzled. ‘I didn’t need anyone to take care of me. I must have been ten or eleven by then. Old enough to do a man’s job—for a boy’s wage.’

  Still a child, Amy thought, tears coursing down her face. With no one to cuddle him when he got scared at night, no one to talk to about the things that upset him. Oh, Charlie, no wonder you don’t know how to play with the children. No wonder you don’t know how to be gentle. ‘It’s a long way from Canada to Ruatane,’ she said softly.

  ‘A hell of a long way. Took me twenty-five years to do it. Twenty-five years of living rough, wherever there was work to be had and a chance of putting a bit of money aside. Across Canada, down through California, then worked my passage to Dunedin. Cutting stone blocks for building—that’s work for a strong back. Fencing, digging the roads, whatever paid the best. Hauling loads to the gold-fields, there was money in that. I made my way north bit by bit—I heard there was land to be had in these parts, good land for a man not scared of hard work to break it in. Took me another five years working in the sawmills and the mines before I had enough money. No time to think about getting a wife, and no women in most of those places—not the sort you marry, anyway. Then it seemed to be too late,’ he said, looking pensive. ‘But I got my land,’ he went on, fire in his eyes again. ‘This farm is mine, and I’ve the bit of paper to say so. No one’s ever taking it off me or my sons. I’ve got sons now,’ he said triumphantly. ‘This land is ours forever.’

  His eyes focussed on Amy instead of into some unseen distance, and he appeared to become fully aware of her presence for the first time since his diatribe began. ‘You were just a wee mite when I got this place. A plaguey brat you were for a bit, you and that cousin of yours running wild on my land. But you blossomed,’ he mused, his eyes on her in a way that made Amy grateful for the bulkiness exempting her from his demands. ‘You blossomed, all right.’

  Amy sat in silence as she tried to absorb the magnitude of all he had said. ‘I’m glad you told me all that, Charlie,’ she said at last. ‘I wish you’d told me years ago.’

  ‘Why? What’s it got to do with you?’

  Amy looked away to hide the hurt. I’m your wife, aren’t I? ‘You should tell the children about it when they’re old enough to understand. It was their grandparents, after a
ll.’ She felt the hard bulge of her belly under her hands and thought about the woman who had been Charlie’s mother; the woman made old and grey before her time. ‘And if this baby’s a girl,’ she said quietly, ‘I’d like to call her Margaret.’

  *

  The weight dragged at Amy more and more as the weeks passed and she grew bigger. The simplest task became a trial, and the heavier work such as washing became almost too much to bear. But it had to be done, so she struggled on.

  On a Monday early in August, with six weeks still to go before the nine months would be up, Amy was taking the dry clothes off the line while David toddled about near her feet. Every time she reached up for a piece of washing a sharp pain stabbed under her ribs, and she had wait for it to subside before she could carry on.

  David tugged at her skirt. ‘Mama,’ he said excitedly. ‘Tommy coming!’

  Amy looked in the direction he was pointing and saw that her little half-brother was indeed making his way up the track towards them. ‘Hello, Tommy! What are you doing here?’ She held out her arms, and he let himself be embraced. He tried to put his own arms around her, but when Amy let him go he stepped back and gave her a puzzled look.

  ‘You’re fat, Amy. You’re much fatter than Sophie.’

  ‘Yes, I’m really fat,’ Amy agreed. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be for long. You’ll see, by Christmas I’ll be as skinny as ever. Tommy, it’s lovely to see you! I haven’t seen you for months. But why did you come today? And where’s Georgie?’

  ‘He’s got a cough. He had to stay home today. I just wanted to see you.’ Thomas looked up at her and his lower lip trembled. ‘That’s all right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is. I’ve been missing you. Does Mama know you’re here? Oh, you say “Ma” now, don’t you? Now you’re a big boy going to school. And you’ll be seven soon, won’t you?’

  Thomas looked troubled. ‘I’m meant to say “Mother”. That’s what she tells me I’m to say. But I forget sometimes. And kids at school laugh when I say “Mother”. They reckon I should say “Ma”. That’s what they all say.’

  Trust Susannah to make it hard. ‘Well, maybe you should say “Ma” at school and “Mother” at home.’

  ‘I do try and say that. It’s hard to remember, though.’ He looked far more worried than this problem seemed to justify. Amy was sure there must be something else on his mind that he would tell her in his own time.

  ‘Yes, it must be hard, Tommy. I think you’ll get used to it, though. Does Ma… Mother know you’re here?’

  ‘No. She won’t care. She’ll think I’m still at school.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right as long as you go home before it gets late. Hold on, I’ll just get these last few things off the line then you can help me carry it all back to the house.’

  Thomas took one handle of the tin bath that Amy used as a clothes basket, and they made their slow way back to the house while David danced happily around them.

  ‘Thank you, Tommy, that was a big help, you carrying one side. We’ll just leave it on the floor for now,’ she said as they entered the kitchen. ‘I’ll get you some milk and biscuits, shall I? I bet you’re hungry, boys are always hungry.’

  She piled biscuits onto a plate and poured mugs of milk for the three of them, sitting David on the floor to drink his while she took a seat close to Thomas.

  ‘Now, you must tell me all about school. I bet you’re learning lots of things. Is Miss Radford a nice teacher?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ Thomas said. ‘She’s quite nice. But she gives you the strap when you do things wrong.’

  ‘That’s so you won’t do them wrong again, Tommy. That’s why teachers strap you. You’re a clever boy, you don’t get things wrong much, do you?’

  ‘Not much. I did my spelling wrong last week. Miss Radford only growled me and said I should try harder, then she helped me with the hard words. She’s quite nice. But…’

  ‘What?’ Amy probed, seeing his face grow troubled.

  ‘I told M-Mother about it, and she was really wild. She said I’ll disgrace her if I’m dumb at school. What does “disgrace” mean, Amy?’

  ‘That’s a hard word to explain. It means… well, it means when someone does bad things and then everyone thinks they’re awful. Don’t worry, Tommy, you’ll never disgrace anyone. Mother only said it because she was annoyed.’

  ‘She said I wasn’t going to be a stupid farm boy. She said if I carry on being stupid it’ll have to be b-beaten out of me.’ He looked plaintively at Amy. ‘I didn’t mean to do it wrong.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. Mama… Ma… oh, you’ve got me doing it now, Mother didn’t mean it. She was just angry.’

  ‘She did mean it, she did! She’ll make Pa give me a hiding. M-Mother hates me,’ he finished in a wail.

  ‘Tommy, no! You mustn’t say that. Mother doesn’t hate you.’

  ‘She does! She hates me. She said I was a hateful little devil—she said it just yesterday. She said she wished I’d never been born. Mama hates me,’ he sobbed.

  Amy reached out and tugged him gently from his chair towards her. ‘Come on, cuddle up. Climb on my lap, never mind my fat tummy.’ She put her arms around him and he laid his head on her breast as his sobs slowly eased. ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it? Tommy, sometimes when grown-ups are tired or annoyed they say things they don’t mean. I know it’s hard, but you have to learn not to take any notice when they say silly things.’

  ‘Mother and Pa have awful fights sometimes. I hear them through the wall.’

  Amy remembered hearing muffled shouts through that same wall. ‘Put your head under the pillow when they start. You won’t hear them if you do that.’

  ‘They had one last night. Mother said she hated living on the farm. She said Pa shouldn’t have made her come. She said she wished she’d never met him. Pa said he wished she never had either.’

  The wall wasn’t that thin. ‘Tommy, have you been listening at the wall?’ Amy asked.

  Thomas’s guilty expression was answer enough. ‘She said George and me would drive her to distraction if Pa didn’t sort us out. She said we were turning into horrible little brutes. She’ll make him give me a hiding,’ he wailed.

  ‘Shh, Tommy, shh. Pa doesn’t really give you many hidings, does he?’

  ‘No,’ Thomas admitted. ‘But Mother said he will if I get in trouble at school. She said he’ll give me a really awful hiding. And… and I got two sums wrong at school today, and Miss Radford hit me with the ruler. See?’ He held out his palm and Amy studied it, but there was no sign of any red mark; the strokes must have been very soft. It was not Miss Radford’s mild chastisement that had got Thomas in such a state. ‘Papa will hate me too!’ He lapsed into sobbing once again. Amy held him tightly and kissed the tears as they welled out of his eyes.

  ‘Tommy, Pa will never, ever hate you. And you’re not hateful, you mustn’t believe that. You’re my little brother, and I love you. Pa does too. So does Mother, she’s just not so good at showing it.’ She brushed a lock of black hair away from his face. ‘Do you remember how I used to look after you when you were little?’

  ‘Yes,’ Thomas said, his voice muffled against her bodice. ‘I remember. But you went away. You came to live here at Uncle Charlie’s instead. Why did you do that, Amy?’

  How could she begin to explain to a six-year-old? ‘I… I just had to.’

  ‘Why did you go away, Amy?’ Fresh tears welled up as he gazed at her. ‘Was it because I was naughty?’

  ‘Oh, no, Tommy.’ She pressed him against her so that he would not see her face. ‘It’s because I was,’ she said softly.

  Thomas looked at her without understanding. ‘I remember once we all went on the big boat up to Auckland. You and me and Mother and George. We went to visit Grandmama and Grandpapa. I didn’t like it there. Their house was full of things you weren’t allowed to touch. But you weren’t there, Amy.’

  ‘No. I had to stay with another lady. I didn’t know you rem
embered all that.’

  ‘I do. We came home and you still weren’t there.’ He looked confused. ‘But then you were there again.’

  ‘That’s right. Pa came up to Auckland to fetch me.’

  ‘I don’t remember that bit. You were there, then you went away. Can’t you come back again, Amy?’

  Amy forced herself to smile so that the tears she could feel pricking at her eyes would not upset him. ‘No, Tommy. I can’t come back. I have to look after Uncle Charlie, you see, and Mal and Davie. Who’d look after them all if I went home?’

  ‘I see.’ Thomas looked disappointed. ‘Could I come and live here with you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you miss Pa? And what about Georgie?’

  ‘Maybe they could come and live here, too.’

  Amy laughed. ‘This is only a little house, Tommy. There’s no room for a big boy like you, let alone all those others. And anyway, Pa has to look after the farm.’

  ‘But I could sleep in your bed.’

  ‘No you couldn’t, Tommy. I have to sleep in Uncle Charlie’s bed.’ She made herself smile again as she looked at his serious face. ‘It’s not very easy being little, is it? You know something, darling? Sometimes it’s not that easy being a grown-up, either.’ She glanced at the clock; it was high time she got the washing folded and dinner underway.

  ‘Tommy, I’m glad you came to see me, and you can come and visit me another day. But you’d better go home now.’

  He clung to her. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Why? Because you’re scared Pa will give you a hiding?’ Thomas nodded solemnly.