The Farm Girl's Dream

by Eileen Ramsay

  Dear God, I’m no the laddie you met at the mill, Nellie, I’m a man sure, and I’m coming home to marry you and to be a father to wee Jimmy.

  ‘You should see my lassie, Fritz,’ he yelled again. ‘That clean and wholesome I can smell her from here, so sweet the breath stops in my throat with the longing for her. Have you got a lassie?’

  ‘Sure, Jock.’ To his surprise a voice came back. ‘Is Helga und two babies, girls.’

  ‘Mine’s a boy,’ shouted Tam. Then he realized that he was having a conversation with a German, the enemy, and in English. The wonder of it amazed him for a moment. ‘Where did you learn to speak the King’s English?’

  ‘In the school, Jock. You learn German?’

  ‘I never learned nothing. All my learning I did here,’ he yelled and then he added softly, ‘or in Nellie’s arms.’ He shouted across the mud, ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Of course,’ came the reply.

  This German was that good at his English that he did not even think before replying. Wait till Nellie hears about this.

  ‘In the church,’ the soldier went on. ‘You too, Jock?’

  ‘No, but it’s the first thing I’ll dae, Fritz. I’ll marry my Nellie in the kirk and I’ll take them out on the town and into the country, where Nellie wants to be. I’m going to learn farmin.’

  ‘Farming? Such hard life, Jock. Me, I like the city. I work in a bank, nice and clean. You come one day to Germany. Is so beautiful a country and the people are good, Jock.’

  The people are good, Jock. Tam looked around at the desolation. Three-quarters of a million dead on the British side. One and a half million injured. Who knew how many the Germans had lost. But the people were good.

  ‘You’re right, Fritz. The people are good. Anytime you’re in Scotland . . .’

  ‘The people there are good?’

  ‘Och, aye, Fritz. The people there are good.’

  And then ‘Jock’ and ‘Fritz’ realized together that there was silence around them. No guns pounded, nothing crashed or erupted in flames, no one screamed. They had not shouted their last sentences at one another.

  ‘Hey, Fritz, do you think your officers have finally got the message?’

  ‘I think so, Jock. Excuse, please, I am crying like a baby. Are we at peace?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been at peace for a few minutes, Fritz. It’s your lot what’s been doing the shooting.’

  ‘Funny, Jock, but I am more frightened now than I was before. Four years, Jock, four wasted years.’

  ‘Ach, it wasnae wasted, Fritz. We’ve learned our lessons. No more wars. Your lassies and my wee laddie will grow up in peace.’

  ‘Please God, Jock.’

  ‘I doubt He’s got much to dae with it, Fritz.’ Tam had never learned much about the deity. There had been a bit of hellfire and brimstone on the one or two occasions he’d been forced to go to Sunday School, but he could not say or think God and war in the same breath, as it were. War certainly existed, but did God? ‘Kiss your Helga for me.’

  ‘And you too, Jock. Kiss Nellie for me.’

  Tam laughed. He could just imagine Nellie’s response if he was to tell her that he was kissing her for a German soldier he hadn’t even met, but whom he would remember for ever. He found himself praying, though, that the war was really over, that there had not been some terrible mistake and that the first moment he lifted his head it would not be shot off by his friend Fritz. But, his head still whole and entire on his shoulders, he duly sailed for home, and Nellie.

  *

  ‘Wash your mouth out wi’ soap, Tam Sinclair,’ was what Nellie said, when Tam finally arrived home and told her This kiss is from my good friend Fritz. ‘Thae Germans started this hale thing.’

  ‘Nellie, Nellie,’ laughed Tam, as he held both her and Jimmy in his arms, planting kisses on each of them wherever he could. ‘The people dinnae start wars. It’s the high heid yins, and Fritz was just like me, wearying to get hame to his wife and his wee lassies.’

  ‘His wife, you say,’ said Nellie archly.

  ‘Aye, lass. Nellie Bains, will you – and wee Jimmy – marry me?’

  ‘We will, Tam,’ replied Nellie softly.

  ‘And we’ll ask your friend Victoria to help me get a job on a farm. I haven’t a notion what tae dae, but I’ll give it a shot. I’ve it all worked out, Nellie. First, get ourselves married, then a job on a farm and a nice, wee tied cottage where we can raise Jimmy in good, clean, fresh air.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, our Tam,’ said Nellie, who had dreamed of nothing but a cottage in the country since the day she had started work in the Dundee mills, ‘that’s what we’ll do.’

  *

  Catriona and Davie were to be married on Saturday, 21st December 1918. Victoria was at work, making lists of all the things that had to be done, for the wedding and for the holiday celebrations. She should have been typing letters for Mr Smart, but her mind was firmly on the exciting events to take place on Blackness Road and on the heart-to-heart conversation that she had had with her mother.

  Now that the house was in good shape, with a new tenant joining Dr Currie in January and Davie there to help, Catriona had tried to persuade Victoria to think again about further education.

  ‘You’re eighteen, Victoria, and you’ve been the best daughter any woman could ever have wanted, but maybe it’s time for you to move on, to think about your own future. I’m that happy I can scarce believe it, but I don’t want to hold you back any longer.’

  ‘I made a promise, Mother, to stay with you for ever.’ Victoria had smiled teasingly at her mother, who was blushing like a young bride. ‘Am I supposed to believe that I will be in the way and will be cast aside now that you have found Davie?’

  Catriona had looked as if she did not know whether to laugh or to cry, and Victoria had put her out of her misery. She’d placed the little box containing two hand-embroidered pillow slips – a wedding present from an elderly neighbour – down on the pile of similiar boxes all waiting to be acknowledged and had sat down on the floor at her mother’s feet, in the way she had often sat as a little girl.

  ‘I’m so happy for you, Mother, you know that. I’ve always liked Davie and you love him, and that’s wonderful. I have been doing a lot of thinking, and part of that thinking says that a newlywed couple shouldn’t have to have a great girl underfoot all the time.’

  Catriona had stroked the shining, dark hair. ‘You’re my daughter, Victoria, you’ll always belong here. Your grampa always wanted you to go to the university—’

  ‘It’s too late, Mother,’ Victoria had interrupted. ‘I’ve thought about it, but I don’t have entrance qualifications and I don’t want to go back to some cramming school to get them. I really love working at Smart’s. It’s interesting. I’m learning a lot and I’m skilled, Mother, and getting better all the time. I can’t think what I’d want to study now if I went to a university. I don’t think I ever really thought too much about it.’

  ‘But you’ll live here at home with me and Davie, and wee Andrew?’

  ‘For a while, Mother. Who knows? Maybe one of these days I’ll get a chance to travel the world.’ She would never tell her mother that she had been offered the chance to travel in luxury to India, but had rejected the opportunity in order to stay with her. ‘And somebody who’s never been farther from Dundee than Edinburgh would surely jump at the chance to do that.’

  Now Victoria dragged her thoughts back from the happy little family in Blackness Road to concentrate her mind on invoices, bills of lading and various letters to type for Mr Smart. She worked steadily for almost an hour until the quiet hum of activity in the office was shattered by Euan Gordon.

  ‘How on earth am I supposed to do that?’

  At the interruption Victoria looked up from the work she was trying desperately to finish. ‘What’s the problem, Mr Gordon? Can I help you?’

  ‘It’s Mr Alistair’s trip to India, Victoria. It’s on again, now that the war is defi
nitely over, but everything has to be done so quickly. He’s taking presents – Keillor’s Marmalade, if I can get any. Does he not remember there was a war on, no sugar and even fewer oranges?’

  ‘You’ll manage something,’ began Victoria, but she bent her head over her typewriter again as Mr Smart himself came in from his office.

  ‘And could you make sure that the shipping company has the tickets sent here, rather than to the house, Euan?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Alistair.’

  Victoria’s heart was beating in a strange way. India . . . India. She was aware that her employer had stopped at her desk, but she refused to look up. If she had, she might have seen the wistful expression in the man’s sad brown eyes. ‘What a pity you can’t accompany me, Victoria. What an opportunity, what a chance for advancement and, of course, speaking quite selfishly, I can’t imagine how I am to manage.’

  Victoria’s heart began to sing. She could hardly believe it, but it looked as if she was going to be given a second chance. Oh yes, oh yes, she would grasp the opportunity. She looked up and Alistair Smart saw the flush on her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes. ‘Well, actually, Mr Smart, now that Mother is to be married again, she has actually encouraged me to think of my career.’

  ‘Do you mean that you will be able to accompany me after all, Victoria? I won’t have to try to break in some stranger to my ways? Splendid, simply splendid. Arrange it, Euan.’ And having dropped his bombshell so casually, he turned and went quickly into his office, leaving his two employees gazing after him.

  He closed the door and leaned back against it, his heart racing. Why this euphoria, you stupid old fool? So you are to have a secretary after all. It’s relief you should feel, not this . . . this . . . Oh, what is this joy that makes me want to caper like a child on Christmas morning? Yes, yes, to have a competent secretary will make life so much easier. That’s all it is.

  Behind him, in the general ofice, Victoria wondered how she could ever handle the events of the next few months competently. She was going to India, to India. But first, first, there was the wedding.

  *

  It was as perfect as they could make it. Catriona and Davie were married in the register office. Victoria and Tam Menmuir were the witnesses.

  Did either Catriona or Davie think back all those years to when, at different times in the same wee Angus kirk, they had stood happily making the same promises? They had vowed then to be faithful and to do their best and each had kept faith. Now they stood and promised to love, honour and cherish one another.

  Victoria cried. This time it would work out. These two lovely people, who meant so much to her, deserved to be happy. She prayed for their future.

  She turned and saw Davie’s mother, tears of joy running down her cheeks, her lips moving in silent, impassioned prayer. Victoria tried to send her a message. It will be all right: this time, for both of them it will be all right.

  It would not be the fault of their friends if anything went wrong. After the simple wedding they all went back to the house on Blackness Road and Victoria was amazed by the number of well-wishers who crowded into the little house. Arbuthnott Boatman was there with champagne that he must have bought before the war. Bessie Menmuir and Catriona had, from austerity rations and generous gifts of produce from the farms, created a meal that many a guest would talk about for years.

  Tam Sinclair and his wee Jimmy, each scrubbed and polished as clean as only Nellie could get them, stood gaping at the sight of a spread that surpassed their wildest dreams.

  ‘Well I tell you, oor Nellie,’ said Tam, as he held his family close against his side, ‘if these are farming folk and this is the way they eat, I’m glad I’ve got my name doon for a job out at Birkie.’

  ‘They’re no all farming folk, Tam. That thin, kinda elegant woman is a real lady doctor. She’s taking wee Andra while Mrs Cameron’s away . . . No, wait, it’s Mistress Menmuir noo.’ Nellie sneezed as the bubbles of the first champagne she had ever drunk in her life went up her nose. Then she laughed and drank Tam’s, because she had drunk hers too fast and had barely tasted it.

  Poor Tam was quite happy to hand it over. ‘Don’t tell them I didn’t fancy it, Nellie,’ he said and smiled with real pleasure as the new man of the house handed him ‘a dram, Tam? A real drink?’

  ‘See that toff with the doctor,’ giggled Nellie. ‘I hear he’s a real live lord. Victoria says he’s been twice tae the house tae see the doctor, and the net curtains the length of the street have been twitchin’ like nobody’s business. He’s a married man, but the rich are no like you and me.’

  Tam watched the expression on the face of the real live lord as he talked to the lady doctor.

  ‘Oh, aye they are, lassie,’ he said. ‘They just wear better clothes.’

  ‘There’s Victoria’s boss,’ said Nellie and she waved enthusiastically at Alistair Smart who, with great good humour, waved back. ‘He lives in Broughty Ferry. Did ye ken everybody that bides there’s a millionaire. He’s lending Catriona and Davie his gate-house for the weekend. Can ye believe that? A house for a man that does nowt but open the gate.’ She was silent for a moment. Even the champagne had no strength here. ‘He’s dead, that man, in the war.’ The champagne was playing havoc with Nellie’s train of thought. ‘You’re about the only one here that came back in the one piece, Tam. Some of them never came back . . . Davie’s brother, the auld minister’s laddie, half the farm laddies . . .’

  ‘Here, Nellie, hold our Jimmy while I get you a nice cup of tea. That fancy wine’s gone to yer head.’

  Tam went off and was nearest the front door when there was a knock. He opened the door to Catriona’s former minister.

  ‘How could I not come, Catriona, and you too, Davie, to wish you well in your new life together and to say a blessing on this marriage of yours.’

  For the second time that day Victoria watched Bessie Menmuir weeping tears of joy. The old woman held the baby, who had wakened up to join in the party, and her tears mingled with his as he cried for his supper.

  ‘I’ll give him his bottle,’ said Victoria and she whisked him off to the kitchen.

  Alistair Smart followed her there and jiggled wee Andrew up and down while Victoria warmed his milk. Then he stood and watched her as she held the child.

  ‘There is something so powerful in the image of a woman feeding a baby,’ he told her. ‘Men look . . .’ He stopped, because he could find no words.

  ‘Sweet,’ Victoria finished for him. ‘Men look sweet. Except men like Davie, who are used to looking after small things. He looks just right.’

  Alistair looked down on her bent head as she attended to her small brother. You look so right too, Victoria, he said to himself, so very, very right.

  ‘I’d best go back to the party, my dear,’ he said, suddenly conscious of the intimacy of the moment. He was disappointed that Victoria did not even look up from her all-important task as he left the room.

  Sandy, the fiddler from Priory Farm, had driven the minister to Dundee, and wee Andrew stopped sucking on his bottle when the new sound danced into the kitchen.

  ‘So you’re a music lover, are you, my wee man?’ Victoria asked her brother as she burped him. ‘Well, let’s change your nappy and then I’ll take you back and dance a reel with you.’

  In the corridor she met Dr Currie and Lord Inchmamock. Their set faces showed Victoria that these two were the only unhappy guests at the party. Victoria smiled shyly at Sandy Inchmamock: she could never really be at ease with him. He was Robert’s father and Robert was dead, and Victoria had never been able to find the right words of consolation for him. Are there any words to help deal with things that are unbearable? Is it enough to say, ‘I’m sorry. I wished I had known what to do, to say. I wish I could help.’

  She turned sideways now, with the baby in her arms, to let them pass her in the narrow passageway.

  ‘There’s no one in the kitchen, Dr Flora,’ she said. ‘If you were to start
making the tea, you could have the place to yourselves for a wee while.’

  ‘Bless you, Victoria. Try to get us ten minutes of peace and quiet,’ said Dr Currie and she led Sandy into the kitchen. ‘Have you any idea how to make tea, Sandy?’ she asked lightly as she saw him look round in amazement. The entire house was smaller than his kitchens at Inchmamock. ‘Sit down, my dear. Perhaps it will be easier for you to explain if you don’t have to look at me.’

  ‘I want to look at you, Flora. I want to spend the rest of my life looking at you.’

  Flora Currie wanted desperately to hear those words. They were sweet, as soothing as any medicine she had ever been able to prescribe for a patient, and as healing. But she could not listen: she had no right to hear them.

  ‘Well, you can’t, Sandy,’ she said almost jovially, ‘so do stop being silly.’

  ‘We talked about divorce,’ he said baldly. I’m going to divorce Julia or, at least, I’ll see to it that she can divorce me.’

  The words thundered out against the sounds of merriment from the front room.

  Flora almost fell down on the three-legged stool by the stove. ‘Oh, my very dear,’ she began, her hands held out in supplication. You can’t. Julia would be a pariah. She would no longer fit in the nice little mould she has made for herself. You can’t do that to her. You’re a man – all the chaps at your club will laugh heartily and say, “Heard about Inchmamock, the old dog”, and they’ll continue to ask you to dine and shoot. But Julia will be ostracized. She won’t be allowed at court. Sandy, you can’t do that. She’ll shrivel and die. Hasn’t this year been hard enough?’

  ‘It was Robert’s letter, Flora. Have you any idea how the boy’s words haunted me in the middle of the night – night after night? We talked. Julia and I have talked more since . . . since Robert died than in our entire married life. She as good as told a shocked, traumatized child that he was incapable of inspiring real and lasting love. She tried to buy your Victoria for him.’

  ‘Oh, God, he heard that?’ Victoria had told Dr Currie of the events leading up to Robert’s suicide, of her horror and her own feelings of guilt that, at the one time it counted, she had not said die right dung.