Chae hiccuped and said Damn’t ay, man, maybe you’re right. It’s a pity old Sinclair never thought of treating his fishwife like that, she’d deave a door-nail with her whines and plaints, the thrawn old Tory bitch. And Long Rob said there were worse folk than Tories and Chae said if there were they kept themselves damn close hidden, if he’d his way he’d have all Tories nailed up in barrels full of spikes and rolled down the side of the Grampians; and Long Rob said there would be a gey boom in the barrel trade then, the most of Kinraddie would be inside the barrels; and Chae said And a damned good riddance of rubbish, too.
They were both heated up with the toddy then, and raising their voices, but father just said, cool-like, that he was a Liberal himself; and what did they think of this bye-election coming off in the February? Chae said it would make no difference who got in, one tink robber was bad as another, Tory as Liberal; damn’t if he understood why Blawearie should be taken in by those Liberals. Long Rob said Why don’t you stand as the Socialist man yourself, Chae? and winked at Chris, but Chae took it real serious and said maybe he’d do that yet once Peesie’s Knapp was builded again. And Long Rob said Why wait for that? You’re allowing your opinions to eat their heads off in idleness, like a horse in a stall in winter. Losh, man, but they’re queer beasts, horses. There’s my sholtie, Kate—But Chae said Och, away to hell with your horses, Rob. Damn’t, if you want a canty kind of beast there’s nothing like a camel, and maybe he’d have just begun to tell them about the camel if he hadn’t fallen off his chair then, nearly into the fire he went, and John Guthrie smiled at him over his beard, as though he’d really rather cut his throat than smile. And then Will and Long Rob helped Chae to his feet, Long Rob gave a laugh and said it was time they went dandering back to their beds, he’d see Chae far as the Netherhill. The storm had cleared a bit by then, it was bright starlight Chris saw looking after the figures of the two from her bedroom window—not very steady, either of them, with shrouded Kinraddie lying below and a smudge there, faint and dark, far down in the night, that was the burned-out steading of Peesie’s Knapp.
AND THERE THE smudge glimmered through many a week, they didn’t start on Peesie’s new steading till well in the February. But faith! there was clatter enough of tongues round the place right from the night of the fire onwards. All kinds of folk came down and poked in the ash with their walking- sticks, the police and the Cruelty came from Stonehaven; and the factor came, he was seldom seen unless there was money in question; and insurance creatures buzzed down from Aberdeen like a swarm of fleas, their humming and hawing and gabbling were the speak of all Kinraddie. Soon all kinds of stories flew up and down the Howe, some said the fire had been lighted by Chae himself, a Drumlithie billy riding by the Knapp late that night of the fire had seen Chae with a box of spunks in his hand, coming from the lighting of the straw sow, sure; for soon as he saw the billy on the bicycle back Chae had jumped to the lithe again. Others said the fire had been set by the folk of Netherhill, their only chance of recovering the silver they’d loaned to Chae. But that was just a plain lie, like the others, Chris thought, Chae’d have never cried for his burning sholtie like that if he’d meant it to burn for insurance.
But stories or no, they couldn’t shake Chae, he was paid his claims up to the hilt, folk said he’d made two-three hundred pounds on the business, he’d be less keen now for Equality. But faith! if he’d won queer silver queerly, he’d lost feint the queer notion in the winning of it. Just as the building of the new bit Knapp began so did the bye-election, the old member had died in London of drink, poor brute, folk said when they cut his corpse open it fair gushed out with whisky. Ah well, he was dead then, him and his whisky, and though he’d maybe been a good enough childe to represent the shire, feint the thing had the shire ever seen of him except at election times. Now there came a young Tory gent in the field, called Rose he was, an Englishman with a funny bit squeak of a voice, like a bairn that’s wet its breeks. But the Liberal was an oldish creature from Glasgow, fell rich he was, folk said, with as many ships to his name as others had fields. And real Radical he was, with everybody’s money but his own, and he said he’d support the Insurance and to Hell with the House of Lords, Vote for the Scottish Thistle and not for the English Rose.
But the Tory said the House of Lords had aye been defenders of the Common People, only he didn’t say aye, his English was a real drawback; and it was at the meeting where he said that, that Chae Strachan up and asked if it wasn’t true that his own uncle was a lord? And the Tory said Yes, and Chae said that maybe that lord would be glad to see him in Parliament but there was a greater Lord who heard when the Tories took the name of poor folk in vain. The God of old Scotland there was, aye fighting on the side of the people since the days of old John Knox, and He would yet bring to an end the day of wealth and wastry throughout the world, liberty and equality and fraternity were coming though all the damned lordies in the House of Lords should pawn their bit coronets and throw their whores back in the streets and raise private armies to fight the common folk with their savings.
But then the stewards made at Chae, he hadn’t near finished, and an awful stamash broke out in the hall; for though most of the folk had been laughing at Chae they weren’t to see him mishandled by an English tink and the coarse fisher brutes he’d hired from Gourdon to keep folk from asking him questions. So when the first steward laid hands on Chae, John Guthrie, who was sitting near, cried Ay, man, who’ll you be? And the fisher swore You keep quiet as well, and father rose and took him a belt in the face, and the fisher’s nose bled like the Don in spate, and somebody put out a leg and tripped him up and that was the end of his stewarding. And when the other steward made to come to his help Long Rob of the Mill said Away home to your stinking fish! and took him by the lug and ran him out of the hall and kicked him into the grass outside.
Then everybody was speaking at once, Mr Gibbon was the Tory lad’s chairman and he called out Can’t you give us fair play, Charles Strachan? But Chae’s blood was up, strong for the Kirk though he was in a way he clean forgot who he spoke to—Come outside a minute, my mannie, and I’ll fair-play you! The minister wasn’t such a fool as that, though, he said that the meeting was closed, fair useless it was to go on; and he said that Chae was a demagogue and Chae said that he was a liar, folk cried out Wheest, wheest! at that and began to go home. The Tory childe got hantle few votes in the end, Chae boasted it was his help put in the old Liberal stock: and God knows if he thought that fine he was easily pleased, they never saw the creature again in Kinraddie.
BUT THAT WAS THE last time father struck a man, striking in cold anger and cold blood as was the way of him. Folk said he was an unchancy childe to set in a rage; but his next rage mischieved himself, not others. For a while up into the New Year, April and the turnip-time, things at Blawearie went fair and smooth, Will saying no more than his say at plate or park, never countering father, hardly he looked at him even; and father maybe thought to rule the roost as he’d done before when Will was no more than a boy that cowered when he heard that sharp voice raised, frightened and beaten and lying through nights with his sore wealed body in the arms of Chris. But Chris, knowing none of his plannings, guessed right well something new it was kept Will quiet, so quiet day on day, yet if you looked at him sudden you’d more likely than not see him smiling to himself, lovely the face that he smiled with, brown and clean, and his eyes were kind and clear and the hair grew down on his head in a bonny mop, Will took after mother with that flame of rusty gold that was hers.
Ah well, he kept to his whistling and his secret smiling, and every night after loosening and suppering was done, off down the road on his old bit bicycle he’d go, you’d hear through the evening stillness nothing but the sound of the old machine whirring down Blawearie road, and the weet- weet of the peewits flying twilit over Kinraddie, wheeling and circling there in the dark, daft creatures that made their nests in this rig and that and would come back next day and find them robbed or smothered a
way. So for hundreds of years they’d done, the peewits, said Long Rob of the Mill, and hadn’t learned the sense of the thing even yet; and if you were to take that as a sample of the Divine Intelligence that had allotted a fitting amount of brain to each creature’s needs then all you could suppose was that the Divine had more than a spite against the peesie.
Chris heard him say that one day she looked in at the Mill to ask when a sack of bruised corn, left there by Will, would be ready. But there on the bench outside the Mill, in the shade from the hot Spring weather, sat Rob and Chae and Mutch of Bridge End, all guzzling beer from long bottles they were, Rob more bent on bruising their arguments than on bruising Blawearie’s corn. Peewits were flying round the Mill fell thick, peewits and crows that nested in the pines above the Mill, and the birds it was had begun the argument. Chris waited for a while, pleased enough with the shade and rest, hearkening to Long Rob make a fool of God. But Alec Mutch wagged his meikle lugs, No, man, you’re fair wrong there. And man, Rob, you’ll burn in hell for that, you know. Chae was half on his side and half wasn’t, he said Damn the fears, that’s nothing but an old wife’s gabble for fearing the bairns. But Something there is up there, Rob man, there’s no denying that. If I thought there wasn’t I’d out and cut my throat this minute. Then the three of them sighted Chris and Rob got up, the long, rangy childe with the glinting eyes, and cried Is’t about the bruised corn, Chris? Tell Will I’ll do it to-night.
But Will had unyoked and made off to Drumlithie, his usual gait, when Chris got home, and father was up on the moor with his gun, you heard the bang of the shots come now and then. Chris had a great baking to do that night, both father and Will would eat oat-cakes and scones for a wager, bought bread from the vans soon scunnered them sore. Warm work it was when you’d heaped a great fire and the girdle glowed below, you’d nearly to strip in fine weather if you weren’t to sweat yourself sick. Chris got out of most things but a vest and a petticoat, she was all alone and could do as she pleased, it was fine and free and she baked with a will.
She was lifting the last cake, browned and good and twice cross cut, when she knew that somebody watched her from the door of the kitchen, and she looked, it was Ewan Tavendale, him she hadn’t seen since the day of the thresh at Peesie’s Knapp. He was standing against the jamb, long and dark with his glowering eyes, but he reddened when she looked, not half as much as she did herself, she could feel the red warm blushing come through her skin from tip to toe; such a look he’s taking, she thought, it’s a pity I’m wearing a thing and he can’t study the blush to its end.
But he just said Hello, is Will about? and Chris said No, in Drumlithie I think, and they stood and glowered like a couple of gowks, Chris saw his eyes queer and soft and shy, the neck of his shirt had fallen apart, below it the skin was white as new milk, frothed white it looked, and a drop of sweat stood there where the brown of his tanning and the white of his real skin met. And then Chris suddenly knew something and blushed again, sharp and silly, she couldn’t stop, she’d minded the night of the fire at Peesie’s Knapp and the man that had kissed her on the homeward road, Εwan Tavendale it had been, no other, shameless and coarse.
He was blushing himself again by then, they looked at each other in a white, queer daze, Chris wondered in a kind of a panic if he knew what she knew at last, half-praying she was he wouldn’t speak of it when he began to move off from the door, still red, stepping softly, like father, like a limber, soft-stepping cat. Well, I was hoping I’d see him in case he should leave us sudden-like.
She stared at him all awake, that kissing on the winter road forgotten. Leave! Who said Will was leaving? —Oh, I heard he was trying for a job in Aberdeen, maybe it’s a lie. Tell him I called in about. Ta-ta.
She called Ta-ta, Ewan, after him as he crossed the close, he half-turned round and smiled at her, quick and dark like a cat again, Ta-ta, Chris. And she stood looking after him a long while, not thinking, smiling, till the smell of a burning cake roused her to run, just like the English creature Alfred.
And next morning she said to Will after breakfast, casual- like, but her heart in her throat, Εwan Tavendale was down to see you last night, he thought you’d be leaving Blawearie soon. And Will took it cool and quiet, Did he? God, they’d haver the breeks from a Highlandman’s haunches, the gossipers of Kinraddie. Tavendale down to see me? More likely he was down to take a bit keek at you, Chris lass. So look after yourself, for he’s Highland and coarse. .
In July it came to the hay-time, and John Guthrie looked at Will and said he was going to have down the hay with a scythe this year, not spoil the bit stuff with a mower. Fair plain to Chris he expected Will to fly in a rage at that and say he wasn’t to chave and sweat in the forking of rig after rig when a mower would clear Blawearie’s park in a day or two at the most. But Will just said All right and went on with his porridge, and went out to the field in the tail of father, a fork on his shoulder and whistling happy as a lark, so that father turned round and snapped Hold your damned wheeber, you’ll need your breath for the bout. Even at that Will laughed, as a man at a girning bairn, right off they were worse friends than even the year before. But all that time Will was making his plans and on the morning of the August’s last Saturday, Chris aye remembered that morning with its red sun and the singing of the North Sea over the Howe, that morning he said to father I’m off to Aberdeen to-day.
Father said never a word, he went on with his porridge and finished it, he mightn’t have heard Will speak, he lighted his pipe and stepped out of the house, fleet as ever he went, and began coling the hayfield in front of the house; Will could see him then and be shamed of himself and his idle jaunting. But Will wasn’t ashamed, he looked after father with a sneer, The old fool thinks he can frighten me still, and said something else Chris didn’t catch, syne looked at her suddenly, his eyes bright and his lips moving, Chris—Lord, I wish you were coming as well!
She stared at that amazed, pleased as well. What, up to Aberdeen? I’d like it fine but I can’t. Hurry and dress, else you’ll miss your train.
So he went and dressed, fell slow-like he seemed at the business, she thought, the morning and a jaunt in front of him. She went to the foot of the stairs and cried up to ask if he were having a sleep before he set out? And instead of answering her back with a jest and a fleer he laughed a shaky laugh and called out All right, he’d soon be down. And when he came she saw him in his Sunday suit, with his new boots shining, he’d on a new hat that suited him fine. Well, will I do? he asked and Chris said You look fair brave, and he said Havers! and picked up his waterproof, Well, ta-ta, Chris; and suddenly turned round to her and she saw his face red and strange and he kissed her, they hadn’t kissed since they were children lying in a bed together on a frosty night. She wiped her mouth, feeling shamed and pleased, and pushed him away, he tried to speak, and couldn’t, and said Oh, to hell! and turned and ran out of the door, she saw him go down the Blawearie road fast as he could walk, looking up at the hills he was with the sun on them and the slow fog rising off the Howe, jerking his head this way and that, fast though he walked, but he didn’t once look in father’s direction nor father at him. Syne she heard him whistling bonny and clear, Up in the Morning it was, they’d used that for a signal in the days when they went the school-road together, and down on the turnpike edge he looked round and stood still, and waved his hand, he knew she was watching. Then a queer kind of pain came into her throat, her eyes smarted and she told herself she was daft, Will was only off for the day, he’d be back at night.
BUT WILL DIDN’T come back that night, he didn’t come back the next day, he came back never again to John Guthrie’s Kinraddie. For up in Aberdeen he was wed to his Mollie Douglas, he’d altered his birth certificate for that; and the earth might have opened and swallowed them up after that, it seemed not a soul in Aberdeen had seen them go. So when father went into Aberdeen on the track of the two there wasn’t a trace to be found, he went to the police and raged at them, but they only l
aughed—had he lain with the quean himself, maybe, that so mad he was with this son of his?
So father came home, fair bursting with rage, but that didn’t help. And ten days went by before they heard of the couple again, it came in a letter Will sent to Chris at Blawearie; and it told that through Mollie’s mother, old Mistress Douglas, Will had got him a job in the Argentine, cattleman there on a big Polled Angus ranch, and he and Mollie were sailing from Southampton the day he wrote; and oh! he wished Chris could have seen them married; and remember them kindly, they would write again, and Mrs Douglas at Drumlithie would aye be a friend to her.
So that was Will’s going, it was fair the speak of the parish a while, folk laughed at father behind his back and said maybe that would bring down his pride a bit; and they asked Chae Strachan, that well-travelled childe, where was this Argentine, was it a fine place, would you say? And Chae said Och, fine, he’d never been actually there, you might say, but a gey fine place it was, no doubt, a lot of silver was there; and Damn’t man, young Guthrie’s no fool to spread his bit wings, I was just the same myself. But most said it was fair shameful of Will to go off and leave his father like that, black burning shame he might think of himself; it just showed you what the world was coming to, you brought bairns into the world and reared them up and expected some comfort from them in your old age and what did you get? Nothing but a lot of damned impudence, it was all this education and dirt. You might well depend on it, that coarse young Guthrie brute would never thrive, there’d be a judgment on him, you’d see, him and his coarse tink quean.
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