The Farm Girl's Dream

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘Victoria won’t throw me over, Father. Were you there? I won’t leave you, Robert. She is prepared to stick with me, but I have decided that I just couldn’t bear to have any woman look at me with pity. And that’s all it will be, you know. I don’t want pity.’ Robert stopped talking, exhausted by the effort, and Lord Inchmarnock hoped that he had fallen asleep. He stood up to fold the sheet more comfortably over his son’s bandaged chest. And then the voice, despairing and hopeless, came again. ‘Oh, dear God in heaven, Daddy, why won’t they let me die?’

  *

  Arbuthnott Boatman enjoyed looking at fields of ripe grain. It was a comfortable feeling. For one thing, he admitted happily, it represented the back-breaking labour of other men, and all that grain meant food for the winter and, therefore, money in the bank. He patted his well-fed stomach happily.

  ‘What do you see when you look at a grand field like that, Tam?’

  ‘Ripe grain,’ said the new tenant-farmer drily.

  ‘Ah, you have no poetry in your soul, man. It should make you feel the warmth of coal fires for the winter; you should smell loaves baking in the oven.’

  ‘Aye, and see money flowing into John Cameron’s pocket. He’s ages with my Davie, Mr Boatman, and there’s one man running his health for the king and another living off the fat of the land.’

  The lawyer sighed expansively. ‘No more, Tam. There’s a warrant out for his arrest . . .’

  The farmer started up from the fence that had been supporting his thin frame. ‘Land’s sake, no: you can’t do that. You can’t drag the mistress through the courts. A decent woman couldnae hold up her head in the kirk after the talk that would flee about.’

  ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Tam,’ Mr Boatman lied beautifully. ‘A Dr Fiona Currie – you may well have met her, splendid woman – has complained to the police that a one-time lodger in the home of her respectable landlady has stolen a very valuable gold pocket-watch set with diamonds. He will be brought to justice.’

  Tam looked at the lawyer measuringly. ‘Jock Cameron was the finest man that ever walked behind a plough, Mr Boatman. His son, I cannae take it in, to be stealing from defenceless women, and not to be had up in court. Mind you, they’ll need to find him. He’ll no stay in the country waiting for the rap on the door. That lazy layabout is guy fond of foreign travel.’

  ‘Even better – though you did not hear me say that, Tam. If the rightful owner of the farm is, as they say, of unknown address, then it is, of course, impossible to forward the rent to him. A fund would have to be established and in the course of time the rightful, or shall we say legal, owner, not returning to claim such funds in the time designated by the law, then they would naturally become the property of the next in line.’

  ‘The lassie?’

  ‘Aye, the lassie.’

  The rock-hewn expression on Tam’s face creased into a smile at last. ‘Well, the lads will no mind working for Victoria. Got the best of her mam and her grandfaither in her, that lassie.’ He removed his pipe from the side of his mouth and knocked the dead ash out on the sole of his hob-nailed boot. ‘Now, I’d best get back to work, Mr Boatman. There’s a wee more to farming than just leaning on a fence admiring the crops.’

  ‘Ach, who knows, Tam. I always stand taller when somebody tells me I’m a grand figure of a man: maybe the crops grow better too, for a wee bit of praise.’

  Tam looked at him sceptically. He was never sure how to deal with the lawyer’s odd sense of humour. But if Mr Boatman had nothing better to do than lean over a fence and waste the best part of the day, Tam would not join him. He had promised to be back at the cottage in time to see that Davie had a decent dinner before he went off to Dundee to the doctors.

  ‘You’ll hae a cup of tea with us, Mr Boatman?’

  ‘No, Tam, I thank you. I have another client to look in on, out this way.’

  The two men shook hands and separated. Tam made his way back to the cottage, only to find that his son had eaten his dinner and gone off to catch the bus to the tram terminal. Miss that bus and there was a long walk before him.

  *

  Davie Menmuir did catch the bus and he did get to his appointment. Mind you, he was there far too early and had to sit in the waiting room twiddling his thumbs, while he waited for the doctor to see him. The alternative, however, was to be too late. It would never have occurred to him to point out the difficulties of arranging transport into Dundee. He was just grateful for the medical attention that was slowly, slowly making him feel almost whole again. He was so euphoric about the congratulations of the very pretty nurse at the hospital that, on leaving, he got on the wrong tram and ended up in Dock Street. The last time he had been near a harbour had been when the ship bringing him back from France had docked at Southampton, and then he had been in no fit state to appreciate his surroundings. Now he felt like a new man. That nice doctor at the infirmary had told Davie that, although he would never really be fit for labouring and was certainly unable to return to the army, the condition of his lungs was better than he or his doctors had any right to expect. With a little light work and plenty of fresh air, he could expect to live a productive life.

  I’ll have a wee walk along the river, thought Davie, who was wrestling with another problem. For Davie was in love, although he himself would never have used such a picturesque phrase. When his young wife had died within a day of their baby, Davie had believed that he would never love again. But over the years another woman’s strength and kindness had caused him to be aware once again of the blood that flowed in his veins. He had never approached her – how could he? But now, now things had changed, and surely she needed him as much as he needed her.

  Davie stopped for a rest and, with his back to the wall that paralleled Dock Street, looked up towards the Law, the ancient extinct volcano that now watched benignly over Dundee. A man came out of an alleyway and, with his hat pulled well down over his face, began to make his way up the street towards the Wellgate.

  An expletive that he would not have wanted his mother to hear burst from Davie’s lips and he began to run after the retreating figure.

  John Cameron hardly knew what hit him. He heard a voice calling his name and began to run. He had no reason to suppose that the owner of the voice would be friendly towards him, and he was right. Davie forgot the doctor’s warnings about taking things easy. Instead he remembered Victoria breaking down in his mother’s arms when they had called with the surplus of the first strawberries. Anger lent speed to his legs and breath to his tortured lungs. He made a flying tackle, caught his arms around his quarry’s legs and brought him down. There was no breath left for speech. The two men fought with every weapon at their disposal: Davie, a trained soldier, had the advantage of skill, while John had the advantage of good health. Back and forwards they rolled on the pavement, while passers-by berated them and sped on their way so as not to become involved. At last, when his strength had almost left him, Davie found himself on top, with his hands around the throat of his childhood friend. The terrified eyes looked up at him beseechingly, but Davie saw only Catriona and Victoria and, with the last ounce of his strength, squeezed. Sanity returned almost at once.

  ‘Dear God in heaven, what am I doing?’ He rolled off his opponent and lay for a moment with his eyes closed, while he desperately tried to suck in some refreshing and life-giving air. He felt sick, but whether his nausea was caused by the exertion or the awareness that he had come perilously close to taking the life of another man, Davie did not know. This was not Flanders. This was Dundee and he was a law-abiding man.

  I must get a policeman, he thought. Maybe I’ve killed him. He struggled to his feet and, leaving John lying quiet on the pavement, he began to stumble towards the Wellgate, where he would be sure to find an officer of the law.

  Ten minutes later, after he had haltingly and breathlessly convinced the constable on the beat that he had not only apprehended a wanted man but had probably strangled him, Davie returned t
o the spot where he had had his desperate fight.

  There was no sign of John Cameron. Only a few spots of blood, probably his own, showed Davie that the fight had in fact taken place.

  ‘He was here, constable, lying right here.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he was, but you didn’t hit him as hard as you thought you did.’

  ‘I near strangled him,’ said Davie simply. He looked around at the warren of small alleyways running up and down the street. ‘What would he be doing down here?’

  ‘There’s several pawnshops in this area would no think twice about handling stolen goods, so your man was probably getting rid of his booty.’ The policeman gestured to the busy harbour. ‘A wheen o ships in the day as well, Mr Menmuir.’

  ‘You don’t think . . .’

  ‘He’s wanted for theft; he’s probably avoided conscription. He knows you were away to find the polis. He’ll no hang aboot Dundee waiting for us.’

  ‘Can’t you do something?’

  ‘What? Go down to the docks and ask to search every vessel? They’d find me floating in the Tay as well, come the next high tide. Naw, I’ll report this, Mr Menmuir, and I’ll be glad to take your statement . . .’ The bobby looked with compassion at the white, drawn face of the man beside him. ‘And we’ll get you a nice hot cup of tea afore ye fall down but, if you ask me, it’s good riddance to bad rubbish.’

  Davie looked at the teeming docks, at the closed doors and drawn curtains of the tenements around him. He would have liked to go to Catriona like a conquering hero, having fought for her honour and found the treasure that was lost, but, he thought wearily, he had achieved nothing. He had driven John Cameron farther into that underworld. Would Catriona thank him or hate him? Only time would tell.

  9

  VICTORIA LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT Alistair Smart’s office. She loved the dark-panelled walls, with here and there a watercolour bought on one of his trips to the mills in India. She loved the heavy leather armchairs and the worn carpet which he could easily afford to replace but never would. Each day, during all the months she had been working here, she found that she liked the funny beeswax smell of his highly polished, mahogany rolltop desk, with its collection of pens and pipes and its meticulously arranged papers. The sole offering to modernity was the black telephone, which stood at the very edge of his desk, as though he did not really want it there but had been persuaded to endure its undoubted convenience. Victoria, standing in for the irreplaceable Miss Jessop, who was recuperating from a bout of flu, treated the instrument firmly and without fear.

  She looked up now from her notebook and caught her employer’s eye. Each was so surprised at being caught looking at the other that they smiled and went back to their work – one dictating and the other taking notes.

  ‘You’ll have those ready for me by lunchtime, Victoria?’ said Mr Smart, unaware that it was already quarter to eleven.

  ‘Of course, Mr Smart.’ She smiled and went out to the outer office, where she had a desk beside that of Euan Gordon, the company bookkeeper.

  Euan loved to watch Victoria at work. Everything had to be just so before she started and then, once she had her equipment arranged the way she wanted it, her fingers would fly over the carriage of the typewriter. He was right in assuming that she loved the process just as much as, or even more than, he did. Now he watched her arrange herself as if preparing for a long day.

  ‘He’s not wanting them done before dinner, is he, lass? You know, you can easily talk to him. He does listen. Miss Jessop takes no nonsense from him.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll send Peter down to Lamb’s to get me a sandwich, Mr Gordon. I’d rather work through the dinner break than be late home.’ She stopped delicately. One day soon she would have to tell everyone, or would she? Could they keep their horrible mess a secret for ever? ‘My mother isn’t too well at the moment, so I want to get the five o’clock tram.’

  She went out to the main office to see the office boy, just as Mr Smart came in to ask her to add a rider to one of the documents.

  ‘She’s away to get the laddie to pick her up a sandwich, Mr Alistair. She’s a good worker, that lassie, as hard working as she’s pretty.’ Mr Gordon had worked in Smart’s office since he was fourteen years old and he was now almost fifty-nine. He could take his younger employer to task.

  ‘Shame on you, Euan, a grandfather noting the charms of a female employee. You should be telling me about her typing speeds.’ Alistair Smart smiled at his old friend and did not say that he needed no one to point out Miss Cameron’s charms to him. Perhaps he was old enough to be her father, but he was neither blind nor uninterested.

  ‘You know, Mr Alistair, I was that surprised when you hired a lassie.’ Like most of the employees, Euan found Miss Jessop completely sexless – neither male nor female, just Miss Jessop. ‘And I have to confess I thought you had gone too far with this “Let’s get ourselves firmly into the twentieth century” business, but the girl has proved me wrong. She’s bright and friendly without being forward. She works hard and she does her work well.’ He stopped, remembering that Victoria had cheerfully decided to work through the firm’s dinner break. ‘She deserves to go far, Mr Alistair.’

  Alistair Smart looked at his chief clerk. ‘And so she will, Euan.’ He put the paper down on Victoria’s typewriter and turned to go back into his own office. ‘We’re well into this brave new century of ours. There’s even talk of air travel. Can you imagine? One day, when Miss Jessop has retired, of course, Miss Cameron might fly to India on company business. I can’t see it in my lifetime, mind you,’ he added honestly. ‘I can see her going to India, though. She’d be extremely useful to me, to the firm. But flying? What kind of fuel could they use to keep a machine in the air between Dundee and Calcutta? I have to think carefully about fuel when driving my motor between Dundee and Edinburgh. They’ll never construct a flying machine that could go all that way without stopping.’

  ‘What a dreadful idea, Mr Alistair. I hope never to see it. Can you imagine the confusion up there, although I suppose there is plenty of space. Anyway, that lassie will be married with a family long before the boffins have such an invention on their drawing boards.’

  ‘Of course she will,’ said Alistair Smart lightly, and he was surprised to find that he did not much like the idea of his efficient assistant being married.

  Back in his office Alistair Smart pulled out the sheaf of letters from his mills in India. ‘Blast this war.’ In one way, it was good for business, which had never been better. But he had always liked a hands-on approach to business and had visited India once every three years since entering his father’s firm at the age of sixteen, twenty-five years ago. His next visit was overdue and, although the managers in Calcutta were sound people, they too appreciated a visit from Head Office. As well as the very necessary business discussions and apportioning praise or blame, it meant more parties in an already frenetic social round, new dresses for the wives and, more importantly, new conversation.

  If only this dratted war would just come to an end, thought Alistair, I could sail to India. And then into his head came a blissful picture – himself in white tropical gear strolling along a moonlit deck with a girl . . . Any girl? Certainly not Miss Jessop. How wonderful to take Miss Cameron. She is so well organised and . . . He stopped his wayward thoughts. Take a seventeen-year-old girl to India? My God, if he was not arrested, he would certainly be laughed at by his colleagues. No, Miss Jessop – the wonderful, sexless, but efficient Miss Jessop – should go to India. If Miss Jessop will forget her fear of creepy-crawlies, I will take her again, and the wonderful— No, he would not describe Miss Cameron, even to himself. Miss Cameron could easily run this office. They’re all eating out of her hand already. Pity she’s so young (he refused to add ‘and attractive’) because it would be quite fun to show her India. I bet she wouldn’t ask for three-minute boiled eggs at the hotel.’

  He remembered his secretary’s first visit to India and the incredible patie
nce with which the Indian staff had dealt with her mounting paranoia. She would not eat any curried dishes.

  ‘Don’t put that in your stomach, Mr Smart. I have ordered some poached chicken. Those spices merely cover up bad meat. Everybody knows that.’

  She had almost been pleased when he had contracted dysentery. She, with her poached chicken and her three-minute eggs, had sailed through everything. In India she had eaten exactly what she ate in Dundee, prepared and cooked in exactly the same way as her elderly mother cooked it, and she had proved her theory. Maybe so, my dear Miss Jessop, but how narrow your life is, he thought.

  No. Taking Victoria Cameron to visit the East could be a very enjoyable experience indeed.

  *

  Victoria was too busy thinking of her mother and Robert to daydream about the mysterious East. Dr Currie had taken another day off from her duties at the hospital and had gone to Edinburgh.

  ‘I’ll see Robert for you, my dear, and tell him that you will visit some weekend soon. Write him a note if you like, and his father will read it to him – or I will, if you’d rather.’

  ‘I wish I could send something nice.’

  ‘His father takes care of everything material, Victoria. It’s a message from a friend that Robert needs.’

  And so Victoria, mindful that other eyes would read her note, had written a stilted little message and given it to Dr Currie, before she lost her nerve and tore it up.

  ‘I shall see Robert’s father at the hospital,’ said Dr Currie. ‘He spends every moment he can there.’

  But on the telephone Lord Inchmarnock had asked her to dine.

  There was no harm, she decided, in meeting an old friend for dinner, even though the friend had been married for nearly twenty years to someone else. It was quite acceptable. After all, was she not a doctor and was the friend’s son not very ill? To explain what the busy doctors in the hospital had no time to explain, in detail, to an anxious father was surely a kindness.