But she did not tell Ewan, not that night nor the week that followed, nor the weeks after that, watching her own body with a secret care and fluttering eyes for the marks and stigmata of this thing that had come to her. And she saw her breast nipples change and harden and grow soft again, the breasts that Ewan had kissed and thought the wonder of God, a maid’s breasts a maid’s no longer, changing in slow rhythm of purpose with the sway and measure of each note in the rhythm, her belly rounding to plumpness below the navel, she looked in the glass and saw also her eyes changed, deeper and most strange, with red lights and veinings set in them. And in the silences of the night, when the whit-owl had quieted out by the barn, once something moved there under her heart, moved and stirred drowsily, a sleeper from dreams; and she gasped and cried and then lay still, not wakening Ewan, for this was her rig and furrow, she had brought him the unsown field and the tending and reaping was hers, even as with herself when she lay in her own mother’s body. And she thought of that, queer it seemed then how unclearly she had thought of that aforetime, shamed, indecent and coarse for a quean to think of such things—that her mother had once carried her as seed and fruit and dark movingness of flesh hid away within her.
And she wakened more fully at that, lying thinking while Εwan slept at her side, turned away from him, thinking of mother, not as her mother at all, just as Jean Murdoch, another woman who had faced this terror-daze in the night. They went sleepless in the long, dark hours for the fruitage of love that the sower slept all unaware, they were the plants that stood dark and quiet in the night, unmoving, immobile, the bee hummed home and away, drowsy with treasure, and another to-morrow for the hunting his. So was the way of things, there was the wall and the prison that you couldn’t break down, there was nothing to be done—nothing, though your heart stirred from its daze and suddenly the frozenness melted from you and still you might not sleep… But now it was because of that babble of words that went round and around in your mind, soundless and scared of your lips, a babble of hours in the hills and loitering by lochs and the splendour of books and sleeping secure—babble of a world that still marched and cried beyond the prison walls, fair and unutterable its loveliness still outside the doors of Blawearie house, mocked by its ghost, a crying in the night for things that were lost and foregone and ended.
It quietened away then, morning came tapping at the window, she turned and slept, sleeping exhausted, rising with white face and slow steps so that she was long in the kitchen. And Ewan came hasting in, hurried that morning, the first of the turnips were pushing their thin, sweet blades of grass above the drills, he wanted to be out to them. Damn’t, Chris, are you still asleep? he cried, half-laughing, half-angry, and Chris said nothing, going back to the dairy, Ewan stared and then moved uneasily and followed her with hesitant feet, What’s wrong? What’s up?
Turning to look at him, suddenly Chris knew that she hated him, standing there with the health in his face, clear of eyes—every day they grew clearer here in the parks he loved and thought of noon, morning and night; that, and the tending to beasts and the grooming of horses, herself to warm him at night and set him his meat by day. What are you glowering for? he asked, and she spoke then at last, calmly and thinly, For God’s sake don’t deave me. Must you aye be an old wife and come trailing after me wherever I go?
He flinched like a horse with the lash on its back, his eyes kindled their smoky glow, but he swung round and away from her. You’re out of bed the wrong side this morning, and out he went. She was sorry then, wanted to cry to him, dropped the pails to run after him, when he spoilt it all, crying from the middle of the close: And I’d like my breakfast before the night comes down.
It was as though she were dry whin and his speech a fire set to it, she ran out and overtook him there in the close, catching his shoulder and whirling him round, so surprised he was that he almost fell. Speak to me like that? she cried, Do you think I’m your servant? You’re mine, mind that, living off my meal and my milk, you Highland pauper!… More than that she said, so she knew, no memory of the words abided with her, it was a blur of rage out of which she came with Ewan holding her shoulders and shaking her: You damned bitch, you’d say that to me? to me?… he was glaring like a beast, then he seemed to crumple, his hands fell from her. Och, you’re ill, you should be in your bed!
He left her in the close then, striding to the barn, she stood like a fool with the tears of rage and remorse blinding her eyes. And as she went back to the kitchen and came out with the pails Ewan went striding away over the fields, his hoe on his shoulder, it was barely yet light, he was going to the parks without his breakfast. Milking the kye she hurried, her anger dying away, hurrying to be finished and have the breakfast ready, for he’d sure to be back again soon.
So she planned; but Ewan didn’t come back. The porridge hottered to a thick, tough mess, beyond the raised blind the day broke thick and evilly red, hot like a pouring of steam across the hills; the tea grew cold. Herself half-desperate with hunger she waited, couldn’t sit, wandering from fire to door and door to table; and then she caught sight on the dresser of the whistle that had lain by father while he lay in paralysis in bed, and snatched it down, and all in a moment had run over the close to the lithe of the corn ricks.
Shading her eyes she saw Ewan then, down in the turnip- park, swinging steady and quick in lunge and recovery, Kinraddie’s best hoer. Then she whistled to him loud and clear down through the morning, half Kinraddie must have heard the blast, but he took no notice. Then she went desperate in a way, she stopped from whistling and screamed to him, Ewan, Ewan! and at her first scream he looked up and dropped his hoe—he’d heard her whistling all right, the thrawn swine! She screamed again, he was running by then over the parks to the close; him not ten yards away she screamed a third time, hurting her throat, but she did it calmly, anger boiled in her, yet in a way she was cool enough.
And Ewan cried God, Chris, have you gone clean daft? What are you screaming for, what do you want? He towered up above her, angry, amazed, it was then that she knew for sure, she gathered up all the force in her voice and body for the reply that sprang to her lips and the thing that followed it. That! she said, and struck him across the face with her arm’s full force, her fingers cried agony and then went numb, on Ewan’s face a great red mark sprang up, the clap of the blow went echoing around the Blawearie biggings.
So she saw and heard, only a moment, next minute he was at her himself like a cat, her head rang and dirled as he struck her twice, she tried to keep her footing and failed and fell back, against the rick-side, clutching at the thing, staring feared at Ewan, the madness on his face, his fists coming again. Get up, get up! he cried, Damn you, get up! and she knew he would strike her again, and rising shielded her face with her arm, trying to cram back the sobs in her throat, too late for that. Dizzy, she saw him in front of her swaying and moving, she couldn’t see him but she cried No, no! and turned then and ran stumbling up through the close, up the hill to the moor. Twice he called as she ran, the second time so that nearly she stopped, Chris, Chris, come back! in a voice that was breaking as her own had been. But she couldn’t stop running, a hare that the snare had whipped, Never again, never again, the loch, the loch! she sobbed as she ran and panted, the Standing Stones wheeling up from the whins to peer with quiet faces then in her face.
A QUARTER OF an hour, half an hour, how long had she lain and dozed? Still morning in the air, she was soaked with dew. She turned and half-rose, heard the whistling of the broom and sank down again.
It was Ewan by the moor-gate, searching, he’d stopped to stare at the loch, thinking the thing she had thought, not seeing her yet. She sighed. She felt tired as though she had worked a great day in the sweat of the land, but Ewan would see to her, Ewan would take heed.
So she raised her voice and called to him and he came.
FOUR
Harvest
IT SEEMED to her that but hardly could she have left the place since the May-day mo
re than six years ago when Ewan had come seeking her through the red, evil weather. She closed her eyes and put out a hand against the greatest of the Standing Stones, the coarse texture of the stone leapt cold to her hand, for a shivering wind blew down the hills. She started at thought of another thing then, opening her eyes to look round; but there he was, still and safe as he stood and looked at her. She cried Stay by me, Ewan! and he came running to her side; and she caught his hand and closed her eyes again, praying in a wild compassion of pity for that Ewan whose hand lay far from hers.
SIX YEARS: Spring rains and seeding, harvests and winters and springs again since that day that Ewan had come seeking her here with his white, chill face that kindled to warmth and well-being when she called him at last. She’d cried in his arms then, tired and tired, as he carried her down the hill; and the rage was quite gone from him, he bore her into the house and up to their bed, and patted her hand, and said Bide you quiet! and went off down the hill at a run.
So she learned he had run, and to Peesie’s Knapp, but she didn’t know then, she sank and sank away into sleep, and awakened long after with Ewan and still another man come in the room, it was Meldrum from Bervie, the doctor. He peeled off his gloves from his long white hands, and peered at her like a hen with his gley, sharp eye. What’s this you’ve been doing, Chris Guthruie?
He didn’t wait a reply but caught up her hand and wrist and listened, still like a hen, head on one side while Ewan stared at him greyly. Then he said Well, well, that’s fine, let’s see a bit more of you, young Mistress Tavendale.
While he listened with the funny things at his ears and the end of it on her chest, she closed her eyes, ill no longer though drowsy still, and peeked sideways at Ewan, smiling at him. And then the doctor moved his stethoscope further down, it tickled her bared skin there and she knew he knew, and he straightened up And you tell me you didn’t know what the thing was, Chris Tavendale?
She said Oh, yes, and he said But not Ewan? and she shook her head and they both laughed at Ewan standing there staring from one to the other, black hair unbrushed, she had gone near to killing him that morning. And then Dr Meldrum shook him by the arm, You’re going to be a father, Blawearie man, what think you of that? Away and make me a cup of tea while Chris and I go into more intimate details — you needn’t bide, she’s safe enough with an old man, bonny though she be.
All that he said as canny as ordering a jug of milk, Ewan gasped, and made to speak, and couldn’t, but his face was blithe as he turned and ran down the stairs. They heard him singing below and old Meldrum cocked his head to the side and listened, Damned easy for him to sing, eh, Chris? But you’ll sing yourself when this bairn of yours comes into the world. Let’s see if everything’s right.
It was. He put his hand on her shoulder when he finished and gave her a shake. A body as fine and natural and comely as a cow or a rose, Chris Guthrie. You’ll have no trouble and you needn’t fret. But look after yourself, eat vegetables, and be still as kind to Ewan as the wear of the months will let you be. Good for him and good for you. She nodded to that, understanding, and he gave her another shake and went down to Ewan, and drank the tea that Ewan had made, if tea it was, which you doubted later when you smelt the cups.
Ewan knowing, Meldrum knowing, it was as though a bank had gone down behind which she had dreamt a torrent and a storm would burst and blind and whelm her. But there was nothing there but the corn growing and the peewits calling, summer coming, marching up each morning with unbraided hair, the dew rising in whorling mists from the urgent corn that carpeted Ewan’s trim fields. Nothing to fear and much to do, most of all to tell Ewan not to fret, she wasn’t a doll, she’d be safe as a cow though she hoped to God she didn’t quite look like one. And Ewan said You look fine, bonnier than ever, saying it solemnly, meaning it, and she was glad, peeking at herself in the long mirror when she was alone, seeing gradually that smooth rounding of belly and hips below her frock—lucky, she had never that ugliness that some poor folk have to bear, awful for them. She took pleasure in being herself, in being as before, not making a difference, cooking and baking and running to the parks with the early morning piece for Ewan, he’d cry Don’t run! and she’d cry Don’t blether! and reach beside him, and sink down beside him midway the long potato rows he was hoeing, growing low and broad and well-branched, the shaws, it was set a fine year for potatoes. And as he sat and ate she’d gather his coat below her head for a pillow, and lean back with her arms outspread in the sun, and make of that few minutes her resting-time, listening to Ewan on the crops and the weather that was so good folk didn’t believe it could last, there must soon be a break of the fine interplay of the last two months.
That was late in June he said that, and all the dour Howe watched the sky darkly, certain some trick was on up there. For the rain that was needed came in the night, just enough, not more, as though cannily sprinkled, and the day would be fine with sun, you couldn’t want better; but it wasn’t in the nature of things it would last. And Chris said, dreamily, Maybe things are changing for the better all round, and Ewan said Damn the fears! his gaze far off and dark and intent, the crops and the earth in his bones and blood, and she’d look in his face and find content, not jealous or curious or caring though she herself found in his eyes a place with the crops and land. And she’d close her eyes in the sun-dazzle then, in the smell, green, pungent, strong and fine, of the coming potato shaws, and sometimes she’d doze and waken sun-weary, Ewan working a little bit off, not clattering his hoe lest she wake.
She made up her mind she’d have the baby born in the room that had once been her own. So she rubbed it and scrubbed it till it shone again and brought out the bed mattress and hung it to air, in the garden, between the beeches, all in leaf they were, so thick. You could hardly see the sky looking up in that malachite, whispering dome; and by as she looked came Long Rob of the Mill to settle his bills with Ewan, he saw Chris then and came to lean on the hedge, hatless, and long as ever, with the great moustaches and the iron blue eyes.
And he picked a sprig of the honeysuckle and bit it between his teeth. This’ll be for the son, eh, Chris? And when are you having him born? She said Late September or early October, I think, and Rob shook his head, it wasn’t the best time for bairns, though feint the fear for hers. And he laughed as he leaned there, minding something, and he told Chris of the thing, his own mother it was, the wife of a crofter down in the Reisk. She’d had her twelve children in sixteen years, nine of them died, Rob was the oldest and only a lad and he’s seen the youngest of his brothers born. Seen? I helped, think of that, Chris quean! And think she did and she shivered, and Rob said That was daft, the telling of that. But things are fair right with you, then, Chris?
So maybe, going home, he told of Blawearie’s news; soon Kinraddie knew more than did Chris herself. Folk began to trail in about in the quiet of an evening, out of ill-fashionce, and nothing much more, they’d gley sidewise at Chris as they’d argue with Ewan, syne home they would go and tell it was true, Ay, there’ll soon be a family Blawearie way, Chris must fair have taken at the first bit sett. But others knew better, Mutch and Munro, and the speak went round that the taking was well ere the marriage, Ewan had married the quean when she threatened him with law. Kinraddie mouthed that over, it was toothsome and tasty, and the speak came creeping up to Blawearie, Chris never knew how she heard it. But she did, Εwan did, and he swore to go out and kick the backsides of Mutch and Munro till they’d dream of sitting as a pleasure and a passion. And off he’d have set in the rage of the moment but Chris caught him and held him, that would only be daft, folk would think it the truer, the scandal; and if it made them the happier to think as they did, let them think!
AND THEN IT seemed to Chris that her world up Blawearie brae began to draw in, in and about her and the life she carried, that moved now often and often, turning slow under her heart in the early days, but jerking with suddenness, a moment at a stretch now, sometimes, so that she would sit and gasp with cl
osed eyes. In, nearer and nearer round herself and the house, the days seemed to creep, Will in Argentine was somebody she’d met in a dream of the night, Aberdeenshire far away, nothing living or moving but shadows in sunlight or night outside the circle of the hills and woods she saw from Blawearie’s biggings. Then fancies came on her and passed, but were daft and straining and strange while they lasted, she couldn’t break herself of the things, they’d to wear and fade at their own bit gait.
A Scots Quair Page 21