The Shadow of the Sycamores

by Doris Davidson

  She stood up, dusted herself down and limped over to see if the trap was damaged in any way. Finding nothing untoward, she had a look around to take stock of her whereabouts. Not far ahead, three spires rose at different heights into the sky and she knew that she was not far from Ardbirtle which, despite being such a small town, boasted three kirks. At this end was St John’s Episcopal, the Roman Catholic St Mary’s stood at the far end and the Parish Kirk, for the ordinary folk, was about the middle of the main street. It had the highest spire.

  Only five more miles and she would be home, she thought thankfully. Looping her skirts over her arm, she climbed up to her seat again, testing the reins gently, for she did not want a repeat of the mad dash.

  Her shelty took only two steps and stopped, nichering as if in pain. She got down again, her heart sinking when she lifted his right hind leg. However it had happened, the shoe had worked loose and buckled and was now lying diagonally across the hoof. Although she had a short temper, Nessie was also a woman of resourcefulness. ‘It’s all right,’ she soothed, ‘we’ve not far to go but we’d best cry in by the smiddy.’

  Taking the rein, she walked in front of the poor animal, hoping that the spits of rain would come to nothing, but, as she should have known, this was a bad day for her. Before they had even reached St John’s, it was teeming down.

  The smiddy was empty, the fire barely glowing, so work had likely finished for the day, but she was desperate. There was a notice at the side of the door, however. ‘If smith urgently required, go through gate and knock at back door of Oak Cottage’.

  This Saturday, his mother-in-law having taken his three oldest daughters with her when she went to air her own house, Willie had just returned from a furtive visit to The Doocot when he heard the rain battering against his kitchen window. He could have bidden a while longer, he mused, for Isie hated getting wet and wouldn’t come out in this but he didn’t feel like going out in it either. Abby and Henry were bedded and it was a treat to sit at the fire without Isie harping on about something. He unlaced his boots and took them off, holding his feet up to the heat and smirking at the steam that spiralled up from them. She was never done complaining about his sweaty socks.

  He was relaxed, legs stretched out, when someone rapped on the back door. He tutted in annoyance, got to his feet and yanked the door open, expecting the caller to be a man needing his services and was quite taken aback to see a woman standing on the step. Bedraggled though she was, he couldn’t help but admire her.

  ‘Aye?’ he asked, cautiously.

  ‘Are you the smith?’ Her voice was low and soft.

  ‘That’s me. What can I do for you?’

  He took her inside out of the rain and, while she described her ‘accident’, he let his imagination run riot. He could picture himself taking the pins from her thick chestnut hair, making it fall to her shoulders or farther so that he could run his fingers through it. He could see himself putting an arm round her waist …

  ‘Will you manage to do it today?’

  ‘Eh?’ Willie dragged his mind back to reality.

  She gave a shy smile. ‘Will you manage to shoe my shelty?

  Positive that his mother-in-law would not be coming back that night, Willie chose his next words carefully. ‘Is somebody expecting you home?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  Their eyes locked, both mature enough, wordly-wise enough, to know what was going to happen. The mutual attraction had been instant … and overwhelming.

  If Isie McIntyre had been aware of what was going on in her absence, she would have braved the thunderstorm that rumbled on for most of the night, the lightning flashing, cascades of water descending from the skies. Always afraid for her chest, she also had her granddaughters to consider so she eventually told Jeannie and Bella to sleep in the spare room, while she took Kitty into her bed.

  Their late night resulted in none of them stirring until five past ten on Sunday morning. There was no food to make any breakfast but Isie insisted that they all washed their faces in cold water and that the girls raked their fingers through their tangled locks to make them look presentable. As for herself, it would have taken too long to replace all the hairpins that had fallen out so she just gave the top of her grey head a few pats, jammed on her black bonnet and tied the ribbons under her chin.

  They had to watch their steps once they went outside, for great lochs of water covered much of the road and it was ten minutes to twelve before the sorry-looking quartet trailed into Oak Cottage, skirts soaked up to their knees. Hours too late!

  There was no sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened. The shelty had been shod, its owner had gone on her way satisfied both in mind and in body, for fate had been kind to her after all, and because Isie and her three granddaughters had to change into dry clothes, Willie’s rather hangdog expression went unnoticed.

  In less than four weeks, Nessie Munro became Mrs William Rae, her first task being to tell Isie that she wouldn’t be needed there any longer. ‘You’re welcome to visit,’ she went on, making it sound almost like a dare.

  When Willie feebly protested at this, his bride snapped, ‘Please yourself but I’m not stopping if she’s to be here. It’s not as if she hasn’t a home of her own to go to.’

  He had often wondered why Isie never sold her house but guessed now that she must have foreseen this very eventuality.

  Willie Rae’s remarriage, seven long years after his first wife’s death, caused quite a stir in the town. Being the blacksmith, he was well known, particularly to the men who owned horse-drawn vehicles of some kind, and being a tall, muscular, handsome widower, he had been eyed hopefully by all the unattached females. Willie, however, had had no eye for any of them. He had believed that the fire had gone from his loins since his beloved Bella had passed on, stamped out, perhaps, by his mother-in-law.

  It was as if the old besom had made a pact with God to prevent him from enjoying himself, Willie had sometimes thought, but it was different now. Either Isie had done something to incur the good Lord’s wrath or the deity had simply taken pity on him – though he didn’t care how it happened. It had happened and his nights would no longer be lonely.

  The marriage had also made a drastic change to the lives of Willie’s three eldest daughters. Neither Jeannie nor Bella could stand their new stepmother and handed in their notice to the local shops where they had served. Defying their father, they left to find work in Aberdeen and Kitty, newly turned thirteen, went with them. Not one of the three made any attempt to pay a visit home – all, in fact, said that they couldn’t afford the fare. Even after six whole months, Willie still swore that he couldn’t understand why they’d been so anxious to leave home and so ‘sweir’ to come back but his acquaintances could have told him.

  ‘I was surprised he put up wi’ his mother-in-law for so lang,’ commented Tam Mavor when their old crony had scuttled out of The Doocot one evening. ‘And, to my mind, that Nessie’s a deal worse than Isie McIntyre.’

  His brother nodded. ‘God kens what he thocht he was at, taking her for a wife.’

  Ben Roberts snorted loudly. ‘I bet he only thought of one thing but I wouldn’t be surprised if he got more than he was asking for with Nessie.’

  Geordie ran his stubby fingers through the remaining wisps of his cotton-wool hair. ‘He surely wouldna object to getting’ mair than he asked for?’

  ‘You’re as bad as he is.’ The landlord’s top lip curled up in a sneer. ‘Do you not get enough yourself? Is that it? Are you jealous of Willie?’

  Geordie’s lined face registered deep outrage at this. ‘Me jealous? About him and Nessie Munro? I wouldna touch that wumman wi’ a greasy pole!’

  ‘Not with a pole but …’ Ben gave a lewd cackle. ‘By God, there’s plenty of her to touch and she’s not bad-looking … if you look at her properly.’

  ‘If you look at her quick,’ was Geordie’s sarcastic retort.

  It seemed as though Tam had stopped paying attention to th
e conversation. He was so intent on burrowing in his left ear with his cranny but he had been thinking of another side to Willie’s marriage. ‘It’s his bairns I’m sorriest for. That two youngest havena had much o’ a life since they got her for a stepmother. Isie McIntyre maybe ruled Willie wi’ an iron rod but she looked after his bairns as well as Bella would have done hersel’. That laddie hasna grew a inch since Nessie took ower the reins – or didna take ower, it should be, for it’s poor Abby that does the work. He must be near eight but my Kirsty’s bigger than him and she’s nae five yet.’

  ‘He was the last o’ the litter, of course, and runts never grow big.’

  From under his shaggy eyebrows, Tam regarded his brother with distaste. ‘If you canna say onything sensible, Geordie, keep your big mouth shut.’

  With no proper schooling himself, Willie Rae had made sure that his son – on the register as ‘Tchouki (known as Henry)’ – attended school every single day. A healthy boy, he had a quick, receptive mind and was an exemplary pupil, which endeared him to his teacher, a forty-something-year-old spinster whose life had been spent trying to impart at least the rudiments of the three Rs to unwilling, uninterested children.

  Because Miss Meldrum, who would take them as far as the Qualifying class, made no secret of how she felt about Henry’s abilities, he soon became the butt of snide remarks, ‘Top o’ the class! Teacher’s pet,’ being the most repeated, to which he usually responded, ‘Better the teacher’s pet at the top than a dunce at the bottom.’

  There was no rancour in any of the repartee, however – just boys being boys and they all remained good friends.

  It was when they finished the sixth grade, as far as they could go at the Junior School, that the watershed came – the parting of the ways. Those who passed the examination, which qualified them to continue their education, transferred to what was known locally as the Big School at the other end of town but those who failed had to remain where they were.

  Only five girls out of seven and, besides Henry, nine boys out of twelve made the transition in 1882. The others had to face the taunts of the incoming class – until they could legitimately leave. Luckily, Maxwell Dalgarno and Cameron Ellis, Henry’s two closest friends, moved up along with him. Unfortunately, the problems and temptations of adolescence – at first just joked about – were soon to disrupt the friendship.

  The Big School was not as cosy as the one they had left. Instead of the fat round stove in the middle of the room, there was a fireplace on one wall, designed to heat only the teacher. Instead of the illustrations of poems and stories they had grown used to, the walls were covered with huge maps – The World, with British colonies marked in pink; The United Kingdom, shires shown in varying colours; two of Scotland, one showing the counties and towns and the industries for which they were noted (Glasgow for shipbuilding, Dundee for jute, jam and journalism and so on) and a physical map with contour lines marking heights above sea level.

  Under the windows, glass higher that any pupils could reach, stood four waist-high cupboards for storing textbooks, new jotters, paper, boxes of chalk, white and coloured, bottles of ink, sheets of pink blotting-paper, boxes of pen nibs – anything that was best kept out of sight. On top of the cupboards lay piles of jotters that had been marked. A tall easel held a large blackboard, the top area so high that Miss Meldrum, their last teacher, could never have written on it, even if she stood on tiptoe.

  The rest of the floor space was taken up by five rows of eight desks, each with its own inkwell, which the pupils took turns to fill, a groove for pen and pencil and a hinged lid that apparently could only be closed with a tremendous clatter. Apart from the jotters in current use and perhaps a wooden pencil case holding a rubber and a rag for cleaning a pen nib – they had left slates and slate pencils behind in the junior school – the contents of the boys’ desks might include a match-box holding a spider to scare the girls at playtime, a bag of marbles, a Jew’s harp or mouth organ and so on. In the case of the girls, the desks would be more likely to harbour a small doll and its clothes, paper scraps to exchange and collections of fancy buttons or ribbons.

  Pupils from the schools in Drymill and Corrieben, two nearby villages, also had to transfer to Ardbirtle Senior – only parents who wished, and could afford, to have their children educated further sent them to Ellon Academy. So there were new friends to be made, teams to be chosen for football or hockey in winter and cricket or netball in summer. There were, of course, new girls to pester, pigtails to tie together, blotting-paper pellets soaked with ink to be catapulted with a ruler. These pleasures, however, were the cause of arguments between Henry Rae and his very best friend, over one particular recipient of their blushing attentions. After letting it pass until his anger boiled up, Henry exploded one day as they walked homewards. ‘Maxie Dalgarno, would you stop pestering Millie Reid? Can you not see you’re scaring her?’

  ‘She only makes on she’s scared,’ the other boy defended himself. ‘She likes it.’

  ‘She does not!’

  ‘She does sut!’

  ‘She does not!’

  They squared up to each other, fists flying, and, when Cameron Ellis tried to separate them, his right cheek took a blow not meant for him. It had developed into a three-way fight by the time Mr Shinnie, the headmaster, cycled past them unnoticed. Their scrap soon petered out due to lack of breath in all cases.

  When they arrived at school the following morning, they were surprised to be ordered to report to the dominie, but Mr Shinnie spent no time in explaining why. ‘Line up!’ he barked, lifting his leather tawse to shoulder height. ‘Right hands out!’ His next words were delivered one at a time as he swung the three-tongued weapon down on one palm after the other. ‘I … was … shocked … to … see … pu … pils … of … this … school … braw … ling … in … the … street.’ He stopped for a moment, having given each boy five stinging strokes, then glared at them malevolently, his nostrils flaring. ‘Do you understand me?’

  Right hands tucked under left arms in agony, they chorused, ‘Yes, Mr Shinnie.’

  Rested, the man raised the tawse once more. ‘Hands out! No, no, my fine fellows! The same hands as before. I … will … not … tolerate … such … behaviour!’ Ignoring the silent grimaces of pain, he finally flung the instrument of punishment down on his desk. ‘I trust I will not have to summon you here again!’

  They said not a word as they hurried along the corridor and up the stairs but their white faces and obviously painful hands when they tried to write told their classmates why they had been late.

  The three were the centre of attention during the half-hour dinner break. Quite a crowd of boys gathered round them, wanting to know more.

  ‘Did he gi’e you the strap?’

  ‘How many did you get?’

  ‘Was it awful sore?’

  Heroes in all eyes now, their pain was forgotten. ‘Seven each,’ boasted Henry.

  Mouths gaped as Maxie added, ‘On the same hand and we hardly felt them.’

  Having had time to think, Cammie pouted, ‘It wasna fair, though. I shouldna’ve gotten the strap. It wasna me that was fighting.’

  All heads turned to him now. ‘What was they fighting about?’

  ‘About a …’ Cammie began but Maxie butted in.

  ‘We was arguing about being biggest. I said it was me but Henry said it was him.’

  This caused much hilarity – Henry was at least two inches shorter than Maxie – and, in the argument that developed between other pairs of boys over who was the taller, things got back to normal in the tarred playground and dinner pieces were gobbled before the headmaster came out to ring his handbell for afternoon classes.

  Going home was not as much fun that day as it normally was. There was a new constraint between Henry and Maxie. And Cammie, still outraged at being embroiled in a fight that had nothing to do with him, refused to speak to either of them.

  This state of affairs eased off a little after a few days but
they never got back to being quite as close as they had been before – not even when Millie Reid, the reason for their quarrel, bestowed her affection on the top boy who had been in her class at Drymill.

  Henry and Maxie remained friends but it was a delicate, tenuous friendship which neither did anything to revive.

  CHAPTER TWO

  1883

  On his way home from The Doocot, Willie’s thoughts were in a slightly maudlin state although he certainly hadn’t drunk much. Even one dram seemed to have him feeling sorry for himself these days, that was the trouble. He had made a poor bargain, getting wed to Nessie Munro. She didn’t really care anything for him. She had led him to believe she did, but she had just been on the lookout for a man to keep her and had plumped for him. She had thought, with him having his own smiddy, that he was a wealthy man so she hadn’t got a great bargain either, now he came to dwell on it.

  Their life together did have its compensations, of course, for she was a buxom woman who needed a man as much as he needed a woman. Unhappily for him, she held him to ransom at times, refusing him his rights if he did anything to annoy her. What was more, she picked on poor Abby, made her do all the chores and the cooking, while she, herself, stravaiged about the town with her friends. Strangely enough, she wasn’t as hard on Henry so that was one blessing.

  Nessie wasn’t his only problem, though. His eldest daughter, Jeannie, twenty-four now, had been married for four years and was living in a tenement in Aberdeen’s George Street with her husband Pattie – a long streak of uselessness, to Willie’s way of thinking, not that he’d seen much of the man – and their daughter.

  Bella, two years younger, was also in Aberdeen. She was also married but had beaten her sister by having two girls. Her husband seemed to be a hard worker, moving them out of their first home – a room-and-kitchen on the top floor of Black’s Buildings – within a year of their wedding. In her very occasional letters, Bella wrote proudly of their cottage in Holburn Street, ‘a lovely area away from the dirty centre of the town’, and their garden, ‘big enough for the girls to take their friends in to play’. Willie’s only comfort from all this was that neither Jeannie’s man nor Bella’s had managed to make a son so they weren’t as good as he was.