“Come on, slow coach,” Lorna moaned, “it’s too bloody cold to hang around.”
“Just give me a minute!”
While she waited, Lorna tugged off her gloves and picked up a pebble from the path, tossing it into the shallow burn with a satisfying splash and a light plink.
“Come on, Iris,” she said, “Dad’ll be wanting his tea.”
Iris stood up, stamped her feet, and stuffed her hands deep in her pockets.
“Well?” she asked Lorna.
“Well, what?” Lorna replied.
“Oh, Lorna, sometimes I think you just never listen!” Iris scolded. “Which dress are you going to wear for the tea dance in Tranent on Saturday afternoon?”
“Tea dance?” Lorna was puzzled. “Saturday?”
“Yes!” Iris sounded like she was addressing a small child. “Dancing, on Saturday, with William and Craig?”
“William and Craig?”
“You must remember! When William asked me out that first time, he said we should all go to the next tea dance in Tranent, as a foursome. Me and William, you and Craig. Remember?”
Lorna realized she did remember, though clearly not in quite the same way as Iris did. When William had cornered Lorna after church that particular Sunday, he had indeed talked about going to the tea dance in Tranent. Lorna had been horrified by the invitation, but William had not appeared to notice. He just waited for her response. Then Iris had bounced up to them—Iris only ever bounced or flounced—demanding to know what they were talking about so secretly. Only at that point did William mention the idea of the two girls making up a foursome with him and his friend Craig.
At the time, Lorna had been under the unspeakable impression that William was asking her out, but Iris had grabbed his arm and excitedly assumed the invitation was for her. And maybe it had been. Either way, Lorna was so relieved, she had put the whole idea from her mind. But now . . . Craig Buchanan? Not a chance! Craig was so much worse than William. He was very good-looking, sure, but oh God, did he know it. And the way he treated girls was despicable. Lorna was sure that he and William had a bet that Craig could charm, kiss, and dump every girl in their class before graduation, and she’d long ago decided he damn well wasn’t going to do it to her. Uggghh! Craig! So perhaps William might not have been such a bad option after all.
“Well?” Iris repeated.
“I’m not sure I can go, actually.” Lorna scrambled for an excuse. “It’s getting close to the start of lambing, you know, so I doubt Dad would let me go.”
“Well, don’t tell him then,” said Iris. “Just tell him you’re going to be doing homework with me. He can’t say no to that.”
“I thought you were suddenly all moral these days, the influence of the church’s favorite son on your soul, and all that,” Lorna replied. “And now you are telling me to lie to my father?”
“Not lie exactly. Just not tell him the whole truth,” said Iris. “That’s not the same thing at all.”
“Yes, it is, and you know it!” Lorna tried to sound lighthearted, but panic was setting in. “Honestly, Dad can’t spare me.”
“But you said yesterday that lambing won’t start for another week or so. And anyway, he’s got Nellie to help him, and the German.”
“No, Iris, I really can’t.”
“It’s Craig, isn’t it?” Iris said. “You don’t want to go out with Craig. But why? He’s gorgeous.”
Lorna pulled a face. “If you like that kind of thing, I suppose.”
“Don’t be like that, Lorna. Craig is actually very nice. And you’re lucky he’ll even bother, because I know he’s been flirting with Esther Bell for ages.”
“Craig and Esther? That’s not an image I’ll get out of my head anytime soon.”
“But Craig is such a good friend to William that he says he will go with you even so,” Iris pressed on, ignoring Lorna’s snide comments.
“Well, that’s flattering!”
“But you have to, Lorna!”
“Why do I have to, Iris?” snapped Lorna.
Iris suddenly smiled her most angelic smile and pulled Lorna into a tight hug.
“Because if you don’t go too, I can’t go,” she said. “Mum wants you to act as chaperone to me and William.”
“Iris!” Lorna was trapped, but only for a second. “Why don’t you ask Esther Bell to go with you then, if she fancies Craig so much?”
“I don’t want to go to the dance with Esther Bell!”
“You won’t be going with Esther Bell.” Lorna imitated Iris’s dramatic tone. “You’ll be going with William Urquhart. And Craig Buchanan will be going with Esther Bell. And everyone will be happy—especially Esther. When was the last time anyone asked her out?”
“That might work, I suppose,” conceded Iris, “but I still wish you’d come with us.”
“I told you. Lambing. My dad. And also the fact that I wouldn’t touch the Adonis that is Craig Buchanan with a fifty-foot barge pole, even if I was paid to stab him to death with it!”
Lorna laughed, and soon Iris joined in, albeit sulkily.
Even though it wasn’t yet five o’clock, the sun was already low and the temperature was dropping fast.
“We’d better get back while there’s still some light,” Lorna said, pulling her gloves from her pocket. “But let me skim one more stone first.”
Lorna scanned the path around her feet, though it was getting harder to see now the sun had all but disappeared. There was a perfectly flat oval pebble a few inches from her shoe, and she picked it up with chilled fingertips, turning it to catch what light was left. It was the most beautiful blue-gray granite, with dark flecks that sparked even in the low light. It seemed a familiar color somehow. It reminded her of something, but of what, she wasn’t sure.
Instead of tossing it into the burn, Lorna left the pebble in her palm as she wiggled her hands into her gloves.
“Never mind, I’m done,” she said to Iris. “We need to get a move on anyway.”
“You’re not throwing that one?” Iris asked.
Already walking away, Lorna could feel the granite grow warmer against her palm, as it nestled between wool and skin.
“No, I think I’ll keep this one.”
Five
Craigielaw Farm, Aberlady
Wednesday, 28 February
Dear John Jo,
Sorry it’s taken me a few days to write to you again, but I hope you are doing well and that it’s not as cold wherever you are as it is here.
Everything is fine. Mrs. Mack told me to send you her love and said that as soon as she’s finished knitting this last sock, she’ll get all of them wrapped up and sent to you in the hope that the parcel will reach you sometime before summer comes! If you are very lucky, you might get one of the fruitcakes she made the other day (not that there’s much actual fruit in it, or sugar, but she still gets it to taste good all the same!).
Iris and I are knitting scarves for Red Cross—shall I send you one of our marvelous creations? I’m not as good a knitter as Iris, you won’t be surprised to hear, but you’ll have to put up with one of mine since Iris has another neck to wrap hers around now. Yes, your greatest admirer is now madly in love with William Urquhart, of all people. (I know, disgusting!) She might have adored you her whole life, but now you’re out and William is in. Bad luck!
Are there any pretty girls where you are? (Where is that? I wish you could tell me!) If anyone can find one, I’m sure you can!
Dad is fine, but it’s almost lambing and there’s always too much to do. The Ministry of Agriculture sent us a new farmhand to take over from Old Lachie. Dad says the new man isn’t afraid of hard work and seems to know what he is doing, but the only thing is
I know you won’t like this, but
I can’t tell you how angry I was when
Lorna put her pen down on the blotting paper. How could she tell her brother that a German was working at Craigielaw?
But did she have to? Surely Dad would hav
e already told both John Jo and Sandy the news in one of the letters he wrote to each of them every Sunday. They were never long letters, and Lorna doubted that he ever told them how much he missed them and wished he had them home again like she did, but two letters were sitting on the table every Monday morning without fail, ready for Derek Milne, the mailman, to pick up.
She lifted her pen, but put it down again immediately. She really wanted to be the one to tell her brothers about the prisoner, so they would know how angry she had been—how angry she still was—at the idea, so that they knew she was standing up for them, and so they would write back to her that they were angry about it as well. Then perhaps they would write to Dad and tell him he had to get rid of the German immediately.
But then again, perhaps they would feel reassured to know that their dad had a replacement for Lachie on the farm. And perhaps that also felt reassuring to Lorna. Perhaps the extra help would be . . . well, helpful.
So maybe she should say nothing. Yes, that was probably the best idea.
And anyway, how could she find the words to describe the way the burn had tightened the skin on that side of the prisoner’s face, the way that she’d noticed that no beard grew through the scar tissue, but that the blond stubble that grew on the undamaged cheek was so fine as to be almost invisible. Or about the way his smile tugged at the pink scar and how it made his gray eyes sparkle . . .
Lorna jumped as Nellie banged open the door from the yard, shattering the evening’s peace. She grabbed the unfinished letter and stuffed it into her pocket, as if she’d been caught writing something naughty.
But Nellie didn’t even come in. She just called through the open door.
“Can’t come in, love, muddy shoes, but is there any chance of another cup of tea? Your dad says the first ewe’s about to drop, and it looks like she’s going to need a bit of help. He says a cuppa would be spot on for us lot who could be up the rest of the night.”
“Of course, I’ll bring it over in a minute.”
“Cheers, m’dears!” Nellie called back as she pulled the door closed.
Once the tea was made, Lorna placed the steaming mugs onto a tray and put on her coat and rubber boots. Outside, she balanced the tray on her hip, as she pulled the door closed carefully behind her to make sure no light escaped. The blackout restrictions they had lived with since the beginning of the war had been lifted across the country a few months earlier, except for those who lived in towns and villages on the coast like Aberlady, in case of an attack from air or sea.
Caddy and Canny were slumped outside the door. They both sat up as she made her way across the moonlit yard, tails wagging, but they made none of the fuss they had made over the German.
They were both traitors.
Inside the lambing shed, Lorna found her father kneeling by a ewe lying on the straw, rubbing her belly. This wasn’t good. Sheep usually gave birth standing up, so this ewe must be exhausted by a difficult labor. Sure enough, every so often the animal would bleat pathetically.
Nellie was also kneeling, but at the tail end of the ewe. She looked disheveled but excited.
“Everything all right?” Lorna asked quietly as she laid the tea tray on the top of a wooden barrel just inside the door and rested a hand on Nellie’s shoulder.
“Aye, it’s her first time, but she’s doing fine,” Lorna’s dad said, without looking up.
“Yes, I’m all right, really,” said Nellie with a nervous smile.
“I was talking about the ewe,” said Lorna’s father with a sigh.
“Oh, right,” said Nellie. “Sorry.”
Her father palpated the ewe’s distended belly again with gentle hands.
“Almost there,” he said to Nellie. “Are you ready?”
At that moment, the ewe gave one agonizing bleat and a huge purple bag of semitransparent slop burst from her rear end. With a sickening squelch, the membrane burst. As the waters gushed out, Lorna could see the nose and front feet of the lamb for the first time. She waited for movement, but the lamb lay still on the damp straw.
“C’mon, girl!” Lorna’s father urged Nellie. “Get a move on and get the lamb out of there. Use that towel to give it a rub. You need to get it breathing and then give it to its mother quick as you can.”
But Nellie was still staring at the messy bundle that had almost landed in her lap, the color draining from her face.
“What are you doing,” Lorna’s father asked, “sitting there as if tomorrow would do? C’mon, girl, look lively!”
But still Nellie didn’t move; her eyes were glued to the thing in front of her. Then she simply tipped over to one side in a dead faint.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” muttered Lorna’s dad.
Lorna jumped to help. She pulled the towel from Nellie’s inert fingers, leaving her where she was, and laid it across her own lap. Using the towel, she eased the sticky membrane off the lamb’s nose and mouth. Then she rubbed its chest vigorously as if she were kneading life into a rag doll. The ewe lifted her head to see what was going on behind her and gave out another pitiful bleat. Lorna had done this many times before, but it didn’t get any easier, and frustration prickled in her throat.
“Come on, come on,” she implored the lamb. “You’ve got to breathe for me, wee man.”
Suddenly one of the legs jerked, then another, and a tiny shudder rippled through the lamb’s body. Lorna stopped rubbing and put her hand flat onto its chest. Yes! She could feel a fluttering; the lamb’s heart was beating. Then a cough, a breath, and a wriggle, and suddenly Lorna was struggling to keep ahold of the lamb as it strained to get to its feet. Relief flooded through her and a tear escaped her lashes and dropped with a splash onto the lamb’s sticky coat.
“Well done, lassie.” Dad’s voice was soft now. “Now, give him to his mother so he can get cleaned off and have a suckle. And then you can see to your other patient.” He nodded toward Nellie, who was lying with her face on the straw, as if she were asleep. “Even if she can fix a tractor and milk a cow, it’ll be a pain in the arse if she can’t stay upright for a birthing.”
Lorna waited for him to chuckle, but he never did. Looking up at her father’s face, she saw only exhaustion. As he moved down to the next pen to check on the ewe in there, he muttered, “Something else I’ll have to do myself.”
“But I can help you, and we’ve got the German during the day,” Lorna said, realizing again that his presence at Craigielaw was perhaps not so awful after all.
Once the lamb was suckling hard, safe in the care of its mother, Lorna went over to the windowsill, where there was a pile of freshly washed rags. She dipped one of them in a bucket of chilled water and returned to Nellie’s side.
Squeezing the cold rag slightly, she wiped it across Nellie’s face.
“Wake up, Nellie,” she said. “It’s all over and there’s a cup of tea for you. Come on and look at the wee lamb.”
Six
Lambing season was officially upon them. The next day, when Lorna got home from school, she headed over to the lambing shed in search of her father, but instead found the German prisoner. He was sitting on the straw with his back against the wall, watching as a ewe nudged her newborn lamb to its feet. From where Lorna stood by the door, she would never have known there was any damage to his face at all, and in that light and at that angle, she was reminded of her dream where she’d seen his face as it might have been. Handsome.
Remembering how upset he’d been the last time they’d talked, and suddenly embarrassed that he might catch her staring, Lorna backed out of the shed before he could even realize she was there.
Over the next few days, more than a dozen lambs were born with no danger to either lamb or ewe. But there were a couple that needed help with the birth, and both those ewes had pushed their lambs away, which meant they’d need to be fed by hand.
Mrs. Mack told Lorna that Paul had barely left the lambing shed each day. She was determined not to appear over-interested in him, but Lorna went to th
e lambing shed to offer help anyway. But Paul refused, saying he was fine. His manner was curt and efficient. Though Lorna knew she had said the wrong thing to him, she didn’t feel she needed to give an actual apology. It wasn’t like his feelings should matter to her or anything.
It was a relief just to know that the flock was well cared for during the daytime. The nights, however, were taking their toll on Lorna’s father. Lorna hadn’t seen him look so tired since he had been juggling days working on the farm with regular night patrols with the East Lothian Home Guard. Thankfully, those duties had ended before Christmas when the Home Guard had been stood down, but still, Lorna hated seeing her dad looking so weary.
One evening after tea, he announced that he’d written to the camp commander at Gosford, and Paul had been given permission to stay overnight at the farm, at least during the lambing season. Hearing this news, Nellie widened her eyes at Lorna in the mirror as she applied another layer of bright red lipstick in preparation for her evening off down in the village.
“So now shall we start locking our bedroom doors then, duckie?” she asked. “But then again, perhaps not!”
She gave Lorna a sly wink and danced out of the door before Lorna could respond.
Not that she knew how to respond. Would it make any difference at all to her if Paul was on the farm overnight? No, of course not, no difference at all. None.
The following morning, Lorna helped her father bring the old canvas camp bed down from the attic. They put it, with a pile of sheets and blankets, into the hayloft above the barn, where Paul would be sleeping until lambing was over.
It then fell to Lorna to take Paul’s evening meals to him. That first night she found him sweeping the floor of one of the pens in the lambing shed with the big hard-bristled yard broom. He greeted Lorna politely, and she felt another pang of . . . not guilt exactly, but . . . well, she knew she ought to clear the air.
Wait for Me Page 4