‘If we hadn’t been closed as a health hazard.’
Tensions were forgotten for a moment as they laughed like young girls instead of the sophisticated young ladies they now were.
‘And I hear Dr Currie boards with you as well. Now there is someone I admire, Victoria, and would love to meet sometime, if it could be arranged. What integrity. A woman in a man’s job and she carries on with such courage when mud is thrown.’
‘There’s no dirt would stick to our Dr Flora,’ responded Victoria, ready to fly to Dr Currie’s defence, but Elsie was totally on her side.
‘I’m so jealous of your life, Victoria,’ she said. ‘I have been no farther than Glasgow, and you have sailed all the way to India and lived there.’
‘Your bairnie’s greetin,’ said a wee voice at her elbow and there stood Jimmy Sinclair. ‘We’re gettin another yin, are we no, Mammy?’
Victoria laughed and so did Tam, who had come up with his wife to claim their son. ‘There’s Mammy’s wee surprise ruined.’
Victoria introduced them to Elsie, who seemed rather surprised at the obviously intimate terms between Camerons and Sinclairs.
‘I’ll away and get Andrew. He’s heard the fiddles and is furious at being shut away from the fun,’ said Victoria. ‘I’m so thrilled at your news, Nellie, and I’ll hear—’
What she expected to hear was cut off by an excited cry from Catriona. ‘Victoria, Victoria. Look who’s here.’
Victoria looked past her mother to the door. There stood a beaming Davie, Dr Currie and . . . Victoria jumped up from her chair and ran.
‘Eddie, oh, Eddie,’ she said, her heart in her eyes and, oblivious to the crowds around them, Eddie folded her in his arms.
He did not seem to be in the slightest bit embarrassed by the loud cheer that went up as he kissed her vigorously.
‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing her by the hand and pulling her to the door. They went out into the starlight, accompanied by a great many catcalls, whistles and cheers. ‘These farmers are just like the ones at home. They’ll be telling me what to say next.’
‘You’re so sunburned, Eddie,’ said Victoria, suddenly overcome by the actual presence of someone she had been dreaming about for so long. Dreams are usually easier to deal with than real live human beings. ‘I’ve got some marvellous ointment Mother makes from elderflowers.’
‘My mother makes wine from elderflowers,’ said Eddie. ‘They can swap recipes.’
They did not notice that the barn had gone quiet behind them and that more than one person was making an excuse to take a little fresh air.
‘I didn’t take a train from Tilbury to talk about flowers, Victoria. It’s all clear in my mind now. I was a good soldier while there was a war on, but I’m not cut out for army life, not as an officer anyway, and working in an office would bore me to distraction. I’m a farmer and I can’t change that. I want a farm of my own – just a wee place would be fine, a place where a man can breathe, where he’s not falling over his neighbours all the time, like in India. God, but that’s a soul-destroying place, Victoria. I’ve travelled as much as I ever want to travel. I know you enjoyed it, but the road from Scotland to England is about all the distance I want to travel now. Now, you got my letter, I know, and I wrote everything but the actual words. But you know what I was trying to say. I’ve talked to your mother and to Mr Menmuir, and now I’m asking you. Victoria Cameron, will you marry me?’
In later years Victoria was to tease Eddie that she had never really accepted his proposal. If she did answer, then her reply was lost in the cry of joy from the host of well-oiled folk standing in the doorway. The fiddlers began to play for the young couple, enabling them to waltz as they had waltzed on the night they had first met.
Elsie sat watching them and, although she had decided that marriage was not the only fulfilment available to women in the twentieth century, she had to admit that they did indeed look very right together and she sighed. Dr Currie watched them with tears in her eyes. Were the tears for her own situation, or were they tears of happiness for Victoria? Catriona’s were tears of joy. ‘He’s such a fine-looking boy,’ she told Davie for the tenth time. ‘What a pity he has to go all the way to England for a farm. You master that car, Davie, and we won’t have to rely on the bus.’ She sighed with happiness at the thought of all the pleasurable preparations she would be called upon to make. ‘Davie, do you mind old Jock? Do you mind what he would have said about this party?’
‘I know fine what he is saying, Catriona Menmuir. He’s saying, “What a lovely walnut shell day!” ’
20
IT WAS DAVIE WHO BROUGHT Catriona the letter. He had looked at the stamp but could not decipher the smudged writing. He didn’t think it was an Indian stamp; he had got used to those while Victoria was abroad. He stood in the garden, where he had been when the postie had given him the fragile letter with its blue and red markings and its strange stamp, and he almost wished that it had not come. Why, he could not understand.
Catriona was making something special to try to tempt Dr Currie’s never robust appetite. ‘This’ll bring a gleam to her eyes, will it not, Davie?’ she asked. ‘She never did much mind what was set in front of her, not like Miss Davis now, who likes her food. Still, these days I feel I could put old rope on Flora’s plate and she wouldn’t notice. That letter must be for her,’ she added, rejecting the envelope that Davie held out. ‘Or maybe it’s for Miss Davis. Who would send me an airmail letter?’
‘It’s got your name on it.’
Catriona took the letter and looked at it suspiciously. ‘Mistress Cameron,’ she read. ‘How very old-fashioned. Goodness, Davie, haven’t I been Mistress Menmuir for near two years. Who would be writing to Catriona Cameron and not know that she was Mrs Menmuir?’
Davie laughed as he watched her study the writing. He had had a few letters from his parents during the war and he had ripped them open within seconds of receiving them into his dirty, muddy hands. How could she stand there and look and question, and never ever think to open the envelope to unravel the mystery? ‘Better open it, love, and find out.’
Since the unopened letter would certainly yield up no secrets, Catriona took a sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and slit the tissue, like paper. She read it carefully for a few minutes, then she gasped and Davie, to his horror, saw the colour literally drain from her face. He ran to her and helped her into a chair.
‘What is it, love? Bad news?’
‘Yes. No. Oh, Davie, it’s John. There have been times when I did not wish him well, but this . . . He’s dead.’ She gestured with the flimsy paper to Davie, but he shook his head. He wanted to read nothing about John Cameron. Catriona took a strengthening breath and went on. ‘There was a terrible accident.’ She looked at the letter again and then in anguish at her husband. ‘Near a year ago now, Davie. You would think they would have sent one of them Marconigrams, but well, maybe John didn’t tell them about us. It doesn’t say how they knew to write to me. He’d never have me still down as his next-of-kin, do you think, Davie?’ Poor Davie was becoming so frustrated by his wife’s dallying that she bent her head again and finished the letter. ‘He was staying with friends in Mexico. Mexico? This is from their lawyers. Why didn’t they write themselves? The guest rooms – what a fancy house, Davie, to have special rooms for guests, not just a spare bed, but a separate room. Anyway, they are far away from the family living area of the house and John was alone in his bedroom. It was a rattlesnake, Davie. Somehow it got into the house and he must have surprised it, they think. He was bitten several times and no one heard him. The man of the house, someone called the padron, went upstairs when John did not appear for some kind of late party they were holding, some celebration or other, maybe to do with the end of the war. They were all waiting for him downstairs. This man, the padron, shot the snake, but it was too late to help John. What kind of a country is Mexico, Davie, where a man walks around his own house with a gun? Oh dear God, Davie, what a dre
adful way to die.’
Catriona began to cry for John, her once-loving husband; for old Jock, who had died at odds with his only child; for Victoria, who had never really known her father and whose memories of him were unhappy ones. Like Davie, Catriona had quite forgotten that wee Andrew was also John’s child.
Davie held her and let her weep. She should mourn. It was natural, but as he held her a feeling almost of exaltation filled him. He too could have prayed for an easier death for his enemy, but John was dead and his heir was Victoria.
Catriona was too stunned to realize what John’s death meant, but Davie and his father had talked of old Jock’s real wishes many times. And the old man’s wishes were finally, in this dreadful way, being carried out. The realization could only cheer Catriona.
‘Sweetheart,’ Davie whispered into her hair. ‘Do you see what this means? The Priory belongs to Victoria. Your daughter won’t have to leave you after all.’
At his words Catriona began to wail.
*
Arbuthnott Boatman was a contented man. He poured coffee from his mother’s second-best Georgian silver tea-pot into one of her second-best Minton coffee cups and handed the cup, resting on its equally lovely saucer, to his newest client.
‘Your grandfather would have been very happy to see you at the Priory, Victoria. He always meant to make a will in your favour. I reminded him several times, but I don’t think he could bring himself to face the fact that John was a waster.’ Suddenly conscious of the fact that he was talking about his client’s late father, the lawyer coughed as if needing to clear his throat. ‘Too bad about John. Perhaps if his mother had lived . . .’ He changed the subject. ‘I do hope your mother is well. It’s been so difficult for her.’
‘She has Davie and wee Andrew, Mr Boatman. No one could have wished . . . my . . . father such a death. The Mexican family was so sorry; they did and said everything right – through their lawyers, of course. Perhaps they speak no English. I would like to have known more: what my father was doing in that strange country, for instance. Still, they explained the circumstances of his death. He surprised the snake, which was nesting in an unused guest room. It’s an arid country and sometimes snakes do come inside, as in India.’
Mr Boatman coughed. He led the topic of conversation away from the horror and sadness. ‘You do understand that the farm and the trust fund are solely yours, Victoria. Your brother is—’
‘To have half of everything, Mr Boatman,’ said Victoria firmly. She had had plenty of time to think since her mother had broken the news of John’s death. ‘Andrew is not to blame for the circumstances of his birth. But that will be between us. My mother and stepfather love Andrew and think of him as their child. I have written to my fiancé. Naturally I am hoping that we will make our home here: he is a farmer too, and it would be good for the Priory to have an owner-occupier who loves the place. Edward could certainly come to love this area. But he is a proud man and may prefer a tenancy in England to living on my land.’
My land. Oh, what beautiful words. Until the lawyer had actually spoken, Victoria had not really let herself think about her new status. She owned outright every stick and stone of the Priory – every flower, every tree – and she loved everything about it: the burns that rippled through the meadows, even the very leaves that fell from the trees in autumn. Edward had to be prepared to love it too. Edward, however, did have some initial doubts.
*
‘Come on, Eddie lad.’ It was his father who convinced him. ‘It’s the twentieth century. Marriage is a partnership, you know, and you’re a farmer born and raised. You’ll be equal partners with Victoria. She may own the land but it’s your brain and your sweat as will make a living from it. From what you tell us, your lass hasn’t lived on the farm for years, and even then she did no labour . . .’
In his tiny room under the eaves Eddie read and re-read the letter from Victoria.
I can’t mourn him, Eddie, although I hate to think of anyone dying such an awful death.
The farm is mine, because Andrew is illegitimate, but I have to share it with him. I know you will understand. There’s room too for my mother and Davie and the bairn, but they want to stay in Blackness Road and make a go of the boarding house. Mother thinks newlyweds should be on their own. Besides, she has come to enjoy being self-supporting, and now with Davie as a partner . . .
I have thought and thought and prayed too for guidance and I can see that a proud man might not want to start married life in his wife’s home. I cannot sell the farm, but I am prepared to leave a manager in it and to go with you wherever you want. In India I realized that I can only be happy on the land, but I will be blissfully happy wherever you are.
Eddie sighed with sheer happiness. What a woman! She was prepared to give up her beloved home for him. No. When they were married, he would work all the hours God gave him to make her farm the best in the county. On that first visit to Angus, when he had asked Victoria to marry him, they had wandered hand-in-hand around Priory Farm and his trained eye had seen areas that could be improved, low hills where nothing was growing, which would be ideal for sheep-grazing. He knew nothing of soft fruits, but Victoria had told him there was a great summer trade and plenty of workers from nearby Dundee to help with the abundance of raspberries, strawberries and redcurrants, which hung like rubies from the bushes every harvest. And Eddie would learn. He rolled off his bed and went to the table in the window to write to his Victoria. He was much more romantic, or perhaps more expressive, in his writing than she.
My dearest wife-to-be, he began and filled a page with sweet nothings that Victoria carried close to her heart until the next letter arrived.
Victoria had, of course, given in her notice to Mr Smart and had spoken to him about the advisability of having her train her own replacement. But although he said that he would advertise for a new assistant, he seemed reluctant.
‘He hates change,’ pronounced Miss Jessop. ‘It’s a shame you are to marry, Victoria, although I don’t mean that in a nasty way, because I had hoped to see you in my place. Goodness knows what he will do when we both leave him. Men are such useless creatures, you know. They may talk about widening the Empire, but that’s all it is, talk. Your Eddie will be the same, you’ll see. Just start the way you mean to go on. Tell him what to do, congratulate him when he’s done it and let him believe he thought of it for himself.’
‘How that dried-up old stick, who’s never got near a man except the two of us in all the time I’ve known her, can pass herself off as an expert on holy matrimony, I can’t imagine,’ sniffed Mr Gordon, once Miss Jessop was safely installed in Mr Smart’s office.
Victoria smiled as Euan proceeded to tell her how to make her marriage a success. That was what she had heard everywhere since her engagement had been announced. The only two people who had not spoken to her of the dos and don’ts were the two people to whom she would have listened, her mother and Dr Currie. Both seemed strangely reluctant to offer advice.
‘It’s a meal on the table, clean clothes, and a bit of peace and quiet to read the paper, Victoria. That’s all a man needs, and as for women, get your Eddie to take you to the pictures every Saturday night without fail. A bit of a canoodle in the one-and-nines and a choc-ice at the interval, maybe fish and chips on the way home.’
‘Thanks, Mr Gordon. You can tell him yourself at the wedding.’
‘And well I may, my girl. Forty-two years I’ve been married, man and boy.’
*
Catriona prepared for the wedding with a joy that knew no bounds. Victoria was to marry a young man whom she loved, and who loved her, and she was to live in the home that her beloved grandfather had always wanted her to have. I always meant to put it in the lassie’s name.
How often those words had come back across the years to disturb Catriona’s rest. But everything was going to be wonderful. John was gone and the farm belonged to Victoria. Everything had turned out well. She had Davie – dear, kind
, hard-working Davie. A few weeks before the wedding, when she should have been deep in preparations and thank-you notes, and possibly even pre-wedding nerves, Victoria, with the aid of Dr Currie, had taken Catriona and Davie into Dundee. And there Victoria had presented them with a motor car.
‘It’s a second anniversary present, or a gift to celebrate my wedding. Call it what you like.’
Catriona and Davie had stared in fascination at the little black car.
‘Lassie, lassie, brides don’t give presents, they get them,’ said Davie, as he wiped away a tear.
‘The look on your face is my wedding present, Davie Menmuir,’ laughed Victoria. ‘No, seriously, it’s to say thank you to the two of you for everything.’
‘This is not the way to begin married life, Victoria Cameron,’ said Catriona sternly, but her gloved hand was already protectively rubbing imaginary dust off the mirror. ‘You shouldn’t be spending your trust fund on presents.’
‘I have only bought one present, Mother, and if you’re going to mention Eddie, he knows and he thinks it’s a great idea.’
‘And I shall give you driving lessons, Davie, and you too, if you’d like, Catriona,’ volunteered Dr Currie.
Catriona managed not to shudder at that terrifying prospect, but privately vowed that Davie should learn to drive properly, in spite of dear Dr Flora’s efforts to help. He was already talking of hiring himself out as a private taxi service. So much quicker than the horse buses or those draughty, uncomfortable motor buses that now clanked their way up and down Reform Street and the High Street. They would keep the telephone when, and if, Dr Flora left – she had said nothing about Lord Inchmarnock for some time, but Catriona had noticed the new watch and the long telephone calls. The telephone machine would be very convenient for her other lady guests and for those who needed a private hire car.
Wedding gifts for Victoria were pouring in from all sides. Mr Smart had given her a chest of sterling silverwear, each piece engraved with a flamboyant W. Dr Currie had given them a Crown Derby dinner service. Davie’s mother had hand-embroidered an Irish linen tablecloth and twelve napkins. Where had she ever found the time, and how had those hands that could milk cows, cut wheat, clean brasses and sort potatoes ever been able to do do such delicate work? The stitches, Catriona admitted, for she was always honest, were better than her own. There were humbler gifts aplenty too, but each one would be treasured. Thank-you notes were being written as the gifts arrived and posted back to the generous givers.
The Farm Girl's Dream Page 22