by Millie Vigor
‘It’s traditional,’ said Kay. ‘Done that way for as long as I can remember.’
Catherine jumped up and thumped the table with her fists, making teacups rattle and bannocks jump on the plate. ‘Ha,’ she spat, ‘that’s one tradition that’s about to bite the dust, because I shall be right there behind my Robbie.’
Jannie and the aunts, Mina with a mouthful of bannock, Laura just picking up another, gazed at Catherine in amazement at this outburst.
‘How could I not,’ cried Catherine, ‘I would never have a moment’s peace for the rest of my life if I failed to be with him on his last journey.’
Jannie sighed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘But … but …’ she began.
‘Don’t you “but but” me, Jannie Jameson,’ snapped Catherine. ‘Tradition or not my place is with Robbie right to the end.’ Defiantly she stood and glared at her mother-in-law. ‘You can do what you like; stay at home and make tea if you want, but I … shall be at the church. Just you try and stop me.’
‘I don’t think anyone would want to do that,’ said Kay, ‘but perhaps it would be better to get someone to help you with the arrangements.’
‘It’s the last thing I can do for him, Kay.’
‘Yes, I know, but he had a mother too. Could you not consult the undertaker together? Share the burden?’
‘I would do that wi’ you,’ said Jannie.
Catherine sat down; her shoulders sagged as she slumped in the chair. She had made her point and now Jannie was softening and offering to help. This was too much. Putting her elbows on the table she rested her head in her hands and thought about what Kay had said. Perhaps she was right. It was not for her to deny Jannie the chance to help with the arrangements for Robbie’s funeral. She sighed, looked at Jannie and said, ‘All right then.’
As they went home, Mina, walking beside Jannie, said, ‘Well, you have a viper in the nest. What else is she going to change?’
‘I’m thinkin’ that she’ll not change anything, for she’ll go home to her mam,’ said Jannie. ‘There’s nothing to keep her here now.’
‘That would suit you, would it not? But you cannot be sure; there’s no tellin’ what yon wife will do, so I wouldn’t count on it.’
‘Then you don’t know me,’ said Jannie. ‘I don’t want to see her here.’
Jannie’s wrong, thought Laura, Catherine isn’t going to be bullied, for that’s what Jannie is, a bully; but now, someone is going to stand up to her. A little smile crept across Laura’s face. What will Jannie make of that?
TWELVE
IN THE CHAPEL the pews were filled with men, not one jot of colour amongst them, hats, coats and ties were all in unrelieved black; only a brief glimpse of shirt front now and then revealed a dash of some pale colour. They looked at her, some with quick glances, some stared and all were obviously thinking she shouldn’t be there. John Jameson held fast to Catherine’s little black-gloved hand.
Thankful that the minister was not the fanatical little man who had preached at the meeting-house, she watched and listened to this one, stood automatically when hymns were announced; let the deep, resonant sound of men’s voices wash over her. And all the time there was the coffin in front of her, containing Robbie, her friend … her lover … her husband. The sweet perfume of the simple bouquet that rested on it, the freesias and carnations that had been her choice, scented the air. Grateful for the occasional squeeze of Daa’s hand, which told her he was hurting as much as she was, and mindful of the closeness of tears, she retreated into herself, put on a fragile armour in order to be strong for the man at her side.
Then they were leaving, going out, following Robbie as he was being carried to his last resting place and the swarm of black crows were behind them. The mourners came forward, one by one, to throw the symbolic handful of dirt. They had looked at her then with eyes that were sad and mirrored her own.
Then it was over and they were back at Jannie’s house. It was filled with mourners, the minister, the doctor and the black-clad men who tossed back the whisky, drank tea and ate the food that had been prepared. They came to shake her hand, murmur a few words of condolence, then drifted away.
When those they had served were gone she sat at the table with Jannie and Daa, Mina, Laura and Kay, taking their own refreshment. Conversation was desultory, faltered and little by little failed and came to a stop. An air of quiet descended.
Catherine looked round at Robbie’s family and wondered if she would ever be recognized as part of it. She had lost the key to open the door; now it was closed and she realised life could never be the same. She stood. ‘Thank you, Mrs Jameson, and thank you Mina, Laura and you too Kay, for all you’ve done,’ she said, ‘and especially you, Daa, for being at my side. It’s time for me to go home.’
There were murmurings from the aunts and Jannie as Catherine pushed her chair under the table and prepared to leave.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Kay. ‘It’s time I was off too.’
They walked together till they came to Catherine’s house. Kay took the girl in her arms and held her. ‘I’m here for you any time of day or night,’ she said.
Catherine went in and shut the door; it was her house now, not hers and Robbie’s, but hers. Her breakfast cup and saucer were still on the table and there too, on the sideboard, was the cake that she would never eat because she had made it for Robbie. The house was quiet; standing still and waiting for her. There was no one to welcome her, no one to kiss her. The brave face she had managed to maintain throughout the day suddenly crumpled. Stumbling through a mist of tears she ran to the bedroom and threw herself on the bed, the wonderful proper bed she and Robbie had shared for one deliriously happy night. Then she wept, beat the pillow, cried, sobbed and moaned till she was completely drained. Exhausted, she lay there clutching the sodden rag that was her handkerchief till at last sleep stole silently in to gather her in his embrace and carry her away.
She woke to the sound of a gull on the roof, looked to the window; it was still light, still day. She pulled herself up, slid off the bed, stood and stretched, then went to look in the mirror on the wall above the chest of drawers. The face that looked back at her was blotched and red, eyes swollen, hair tousled.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, ‘you look awful. You need a bath.’
In her kitchen she raked out dead ashes, rebuilt the fire, then put her kettle and all her saucepans, filled to the brim with water from the rain butt, on to the stove to heat. She fetched the wash tub and put it on the mat in front of the fire.
Sitting down to wait for the water to boil she began to think about what she was going to do with her life. Robbie had told her his plans and she had promised to help him. He wasn’t here now. Could she do it for him?
When the rattle of a saucepan lid caught her attention she got up and went to the stove. The smallest pan was boiling so she set it back and pulled a bigger one forward. It would be a while yet before the water was hot enough for her bath. She pushed more peat in the stove, then sat down again.
On the table in front of her lay her work basket. It had been given to her by her mother. ‘You’ll need this,’ she had said. ‘Men always need a button sewn on or a tear mended.’ Catherine began to examine the contents; amongst the needles and cotton, elastic and sock-mending wool was a pair of scissors. She picked them up; they had been her grandmother’s. Holding them with finger and thumb she opened and closed the blades, heard the sound that mirrored the word. Scissors, scissors. They were sharp. Would they cut hair as well as cloth?
In the bedroom she looked in the mirror, pulled a lock of hair forward, positioned the scissors either side of it … then cut … crunch … the blades came together and chopped it off. Holding the severed curl she looked at it, then put it down. Methodically and deliberately she cut and cut again until her long dark mane had been reduced to a crop of curls. She smiled at her reflection. ‘New me,’ she said. ‘Catherine Jameson, new model ready to face the world.’
&nbs
p; Pan lids rattled with escaping steam when she returned to the kitchen. She poured hot and cold water into the tub and when the temperature was right stepped out of her clothes and into it. With her knees almost under her chin she soaped her flannel and began to wash.
THIRTEEN
A BROWN-PAPER parcel tied with string was strapped to the carrier on the back of Catherine’s bike and on each handle bar hung a shopping bag. Though not as rough as the track down into Deepdale the road from the town was by no means smooth. It had been tarred in places, but the stretches in between were potholed and the bags on the handlebars made steering difficult. Not only did she have to concentrate on steering, but be prepared to brake hard at a moment’s notice. Why was it the silly sheep always seemed to wait until the last moment to dash across the road in front of her? She shouted at them and rang her bicycle bell but it made no difference. They seemed hell bent on suicide.
Suicidal sheep and potholes apart, the road down into the valley was the most hazardous part of her journey. Its steep descent combined with loose stones required more courage to ride down it than she possessed so she got off to walk.
Knitting in her hands, Jannie stepped out of her house as Catherine drew level. ‘You’ve never been to work,’ she began, then gasped. ‘What have you done to your hair?’
‘It was too long so I cut it,’ said Catherine.
Jannie eyed the shopping bags and parcel. ‘You’ve been shopping.’
‘That’s right.’ Not willing to divulge what she had shopped for Catherine walked on. She knew that Jannie, still knitting, would be watching her and wondering what she had bought.
‘Daa,’ said Catherine, ‘you said I had to ask if I wanted anything. Well … will you teach me how to be a crofter?’
Daa was unharnessing the pony. He laid his hands on its back, looked at and studied her. ‘Do you know what you’re asking?’ he said.
‘No, but I want you to teach me.’
‘Why.’
‘Robbie told me his plans and I promised to help, but I don’t know how.’
Daa turned his head away; softly he said, ‘But Robbie’s not here.’
‘I know,’ said Catherine, ‘but I promised and I’d like the chance to make his dreams come true … or at least try.’
Daa took his pipe from his pocket and some tobacco from a screw of paper and began to fill the bowl. Catherine watched as he struck a match, put it to the pipe and drew on it. He would be thinking and wouldn’t answer till the pipe was well and truly alight. With it clamped between his teeth Daa went on taking the harness off the pony. Catherine waited.
‘Crofting’s a hard life with very little return,’ Daa said at last, ‘and you’re a nurse and that’s an important—’
‘No,’ protested Catherine, ‘I’ve made up my mind; please don’t tell me I ought to go home and take up nursing again because—’
‘Lass,’ Daa butted in, ‘I’m not going to tell you what to do, but croftin’s …’ he shook his head. ‘You would have to be out in all weathers and you should know what you would be takin’ on.’
‘But other women do this, Daa. Surely I could too?’
‘Shetland bairns start to learn as soon as they can walk, if not before.’
Catherine stepped forward, put her hands on the pony’s flank, then looked up into Daa’s face. ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ she said. ‘Somehow or other it’s what I’m going to do. Robbie said I could get books from the library and he would teach me.’ She paused, pleaded, ‘Could you not teach me, Daa … please?’
Daa took his pipe from his mouth and looked at her.
For what seemed an age he said nothing. Returning his gaze Catherine willed him to agree to her request. Then to her relief a slow grin spread across his face. ‘You’re a brave girl,’ he said, ‘and a very stubborn one. Go home, I’ll come along to see you and we’ll work something out.’ Clamping his teeth on the stem of his pipe he chuckled and led the pony into the barn.
It was a pleasant day; cool with some wind, just the sort of day to be out of doors. Catherine was going to the moor to work at her peat bank. When she came out of her house the aunts were feeding their chickens. Kay had joined them and Jannie was there too, knitting as always. As Catherine approached them Jannie was first to speak.
‘Get back in your house and dress decent, you cannot be seen like that.’
Laura giggled; Mina silenced her with a stern look then turned to Catherine. ‘Have you no shame?’ she said. ‘You a widow and dressed like that?’
‘What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?’ asked Catherine, spreading her arms wide as if to show herself off. She was wearing a jumper over a cotton shirt, a pair of trousers and boy’s boots. Her boyish look was accentuated by her short-cropped hair. ‘I’m going up the hill to work with the peat,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to agree that trousers are much more sensible than a skirt.’
‘But you’re a woman,’ snapped Jannie.
‘So what?’
‘Who cut your hair?’ asked Kay.
‘I did.’
‘Mm. You’d better let me tidy it up. It could do with a little help.’
Jannie’s expression was dark and disapproving, Mina’s too, but Laura, who stood behind Mina, had a smile on her face.
Catherine smiled at them all. ‘Well, from now on when I’m working outside this is what I shall be wearing,’ she said, ‘so you’d better get used to it.’
As she walked away she chuckled, knowing that Jannie and Mina, but not Kay or Laura, would be tut-tutting and muttering their disapproval. Didn’t they know the war had changed the role of women? Or had these women been so isolated in their little valley that life had virtually passed them by?
There was no one else on the moor when she got there. The sea was visible to east and west. Some distance out from the shore a fishing boat rose and fell on the heave of the water, up it went to ride the wave then down to disappear in a trough. Sometimes the wheelhouse remained visible; sometimes it was out of sight, but however deep it went the little boat always rose up again.
Wind and weather had combined to start the drying process of the peat laid out on the turf above the bank that Robbie had cut; such a long bank, such a lot of peat. It was going to take some time to get it all raised up. And that was only the beginning; later on she would have to get it home and then it would have to be stacked again.
She had brought a bottle of water and some sandwiches with her. She took off her jumper and put it down with the bag. She had to build pyramids, but how? Copying someone else’s she set to work. She had been busy for some time when she heard her name being called; she looked up and saw Billie.
‘Hello, Catherine,’ he said. ‘Ah my, what have you done to your hair?’
‘It was always getting in my mouth and eyes so I cut it and now it doesn’t.’
‘Looks all right. How are you getting on wi’ the peat.’
‘It’s a back-breaking job, isn’t it?’
Billie laughed. ‘Ay, but if you don’t count the work, it’s free.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ said Catherine. She folded her jumper, laid it on the bag, then sat on it. ‘It’s time for lunch. Would you like a sandwich?’
‘I’m had me dinner. I see you’re wearin’ breeks and boots. Bet Jannie doesn’t like that.’
‘No, she doesn’t and neither will she like me being a crofter.’
Billie’s mouth opened and shut several times before he could say, ‘Crofter?
‘Yes. Daa is going to teach me how to run Robbie’s croft.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ said Billie, hesitating before going on, ‘You’re a woman and,’ he looked at her and paused before saying, ‘you’re English.’
‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’
Billie looked uncomfortable. ‘There’s some that don’t like the English.’
‘Oh. Do you think that’s why Jannie doesn’t like me?’ asked Catherine.
‘I don’t know,
it might be. She didn’t know you were comin’. She was mad at Robbie for not telling her.’
‘But he wrote her a letter. I know because I posted it myself.’
‘Ay, well, sometimes things go astray.’ It wasn’t only the letter that had gone astray, thought Catherine. ‘What’s it like south?’ asked Billie. ‘The men from the fishin’ tell stories of it, but … I’d like to go some day.’
‘Why would you want to do that? Aren’t you happy here?’
‘Just want to see it for myself.’
‘I don’t think you would like it.’
‘But it’s …’ he looked disappointed.
‘Where it all happens?’ said Catherine.
‘Yea, that’s what the men say.’
‘You don’t want to take too much notice of them,’ said Catherine. ‘Fishermen are notorious for telling tales. You don’t want to go, you really don’t.’
‘Well … well … I just would.’ Billie scrambled to his feet. ‘I’d better get on wi’ our peat.’ He stood and looked down at her. ‘You’ll not say anything to Mam, will you? She’d not be pleased.’
‘No, of course I won’t.’
Billie loped off. Catherine watched him go. Was he lonely, living on that isolated croft with only his mother and father for company? Was that why he wanted to get away? Who could blame him? Their lives probably followed the same routine as the folk in Deepdale, planting and growing crops, working with animals, and trying to wrest a living from a land reluctant to give.
FOURTEEN
A SUDDEN SCUD of rain beating on the window woke Catherine. She opened her eyes, stretched, yawned then looked at the clock by her bedside. Eight o’clock; she’d overslept. She swung her legs out of bed and stood up. Suddenly a desire to be sick made her cover her mouth with her hand. She sat down heavily, but when it happened again she slid off and reached for the chamber pot beneath it. Down on her knees, hands flat on the floor she vomited, retched again and again until she spewed nothing but clear liquid and her stomach was sore. When there was no more she sat back on her heels and reached under her pillow for a handkerchief to wipe her mouth and mop the sweat from her brow.