Again the searing pain of his loss tore through him.
‘Oh, Robert, laddie, how can I even begin to think that I might get over losing you. But, oh dear God, I pray to be able to think of you without pain.’
Sandy sat down to write to his love and, like Eddie Welborn, he had no trouble saying what was in his heart.
*
Dr Currie laughed and cried when she read the letter. Australia. If they went there, it was tantamount to saying goodbye to everything and everyone she held dear: Catriona, Victoria, wee Andrew, Davie, her colleagues, her patients. And here was Victoria in the middle of preparations for a summer wedding, and Flora did not want to miss that. And did she even want to go to Australia? She looked into her heart and answered the question herself. If she had Sandy Fotheringham and her work, she would go anywhere – even to the other side of the world, away from everyone and everything she knew.
Darling Sandy,
Of course I will go with you to Australia. I would walk beside you and, with you, brave any hardship. It’s going to be such an adventure, but we must go together.
I shall begin to wind up my affairs here, but there are one or two patients who still need me and who will need me for the next few months. After that, your Flora will go anywhere with you.
Victoria and her Eddie are to marry and to live at the farm. He is a very sensible young man and it is obvious that he is deeply in love with Victoria. She, of course, is walking around deliriously happy and getting in Catriona’s way. The wedding is to be at Priory Farm and I should like to be here for that. Then there is Nellie’s second confinement.
Wee Jimmy arrived with the help of his granny, but Jimmy’s sibling is to have all ‘modern conveniences’. You see, I am as welcome as the latest in plumbing. No doubt I will be valued in like fashion in the great outdoors.
And do you really intend to become a sheep farmer? Since your wife-to-be is determined to work, are you determined to labour too? Thank you for understanding my needs.
The next part made her write and tear up the first few drafts. She was, after all, forty-two years old and had, many years before (the year in fact that Julia had drifted down the aisle to marry Sandy Inchmarnock) given up all thought of having a child of her own. But, maybe, just maybe she was not too old. Should she say something that might raise hopes of a bereaved father? Yes. No. She wrote and discarded, then took refuge in being enigmatic.
And remember, my dearest, that my health has always been good. Perhaps one day I shall have other things to occupy me – and I do not mean ‘good works’, like Victoria’s friend, Elsie. I shall miss day-to-day knowledge of Elsie’s career, but I am sure even Australia shall one day hear of her. She has determined that the vote is not enough and that women are also entitled to representation. A female member of parliament! Can you think what my dear father would have had to say about that? Perhaps it is as well that you propose to take me halfway across the world, for the notion of joining the martial Elsie has occurred to me, and I fear I have already blotted my family copybook enough. I see that Julia is to be a member of a committee that will raise funds for war relief. It is an excellent way for her to begin to reinstate herself in her circle. I could not be happy, Sandy, at the expense of her suffering. She sent me a sweet note to wish us well, and I pray that she too will eventually find some happiness.
Can you come north for the wedding? Then we too can be married quietly and make that incredible journey to the Antipodes together. See how bold the modern woman has become!
I wear your watch every day and take comfort from its inscription.
Dr Currie delivered Miss Mary (after her majesty the queen) Flora (after the lady doctor) Bains-Sinclair two days before Miss Victoria Cameron married Mr Edward Welborn at the wee church at Liff, where both Miss Cameron and Mrs Sinclair had been christened. Miss Cameron was given in marriage by her stepfather, Mr David Menmuir. And since her chosen attendant was necessarily unavailable, she was attended rather amusingly by Master James Sinclair, who ate the flowers in his posy all the way down the aisle, and by her brother Andrew, who abandoned both sister and posy in the middle of the aisle, when he discovered his Menmuir grampa trying to hide from him in a side pew. Miss Elsie Morrison was heard to mutter that she could hardly wait to get both little boys to the Harris Academy for ‘sorting’, but even she was seen to wipe a tear from her eye at the look in Eddie Welborn’s face when he turned and saw the ethereal figure of his bride coming down the aisle on the proud arm of Davie Menmuir. Neither wee boy would stand still for the obligatory wedding picture, so Victoria held one and Eddie the other. But even the stiff result of modern photography could not hide the happiness in the eyes of the new Mr and Mrs Edward Welborn. The young couple, who had both travelled extensively, went off for a week’s holiday to Pitlochry, where Eddie began to teach Victoria to play golf and Victoria taught Eddie the new dance steps learned from Elsie, that arbiter of fashion, in the days before the wedding. Then they had a week in the Lake District with Eddie’s parents and, during lovely long walks, began to think seriously about the changes they might make at their own farm.
‘I can still hardly believe that the Priory is ours, Eddie,’ said Victoria, as she sat very decorously beside her new husband on the train journey back to Dundee.
Boldly Eddie took her hand with the shiny new gold ring and held it in his. ‘Yours and Andie’s, Victoria.’
‘We’re partners, Eddie, in everything,’ smiled Victoria. Then she blushed furiously at the thought that Eddie might think her remark bold.
Davie met them at the station and, after a quick visit to Catriona at Blackness Road, he drove the Welborns to their own home.
‘We’re having a telephone put in, Davie,’ said Eddie, ‘and as soon as my wife is ready, she will ring you two and invite you to dinner.’
Davie was delighted. He had never before been formally invited to ‘Take yer dinner with us, Davie’, and he drove off happily to tell Catriona of the delights in store. But it was three weeks later before Victoria felt confident enough in her housewifely abilities to contemplate having guests for dinner. Nellie Sinclair was anxious to get back to work and seemed to see no problem at all in working for her old school friend. Still, Victoria wanted to tidy her new house all by herself and to cook her very first dinner for company without any help. Because Catriona had always washed the best dishes before and after every use, Victoria spent a lovely day washing her new china and setting the table in her grandfather’s panelled dining room. She looked at the beautifully embroidered cloth, the fine silverware and the exquisite china, and she smiled with brand-new housewifely pride.
‘The food won’t be as good as Mother’s,’ she whispered to whatever happy spirits hovered around her, as she went about her self-appointed tasks, ‘but there’s a surprise after dinner and it’s especially for you, Grampa.’
The Scotch broth was a little too salty, the roast beef rather well done, and the sherry for the trifle had been poured with rather too liberal a hand. But the errors were all ones that would mend, and the guests, Catriona, Davie and wee Andrew, were lavish with their compliments, although Andrew made a terrible face when he tried his trifle and demanded to get down, in a tone that brooked no argument.
‘Don’t let him outside, Davie,’ whispered Victoria. ‘We don’t want him falling in our hole.’
At last the time had come for her surprise. Davie captured Andrew and kept him happy rolling nuts along the table, while Victoria told Eddie about walnut shell days.
‘And because we are so happy, darling Eddie, and our life is going to be full of walnut shell days, we are going to have our very own walnut tree. Outside, everyone.’
They went outside to the small lawn that ran from the house down to the brook. A few days before the party Tam and Davie had dug a fine hole in the middle of the lawn, and sitting lopsidedly beside it was a small sapling.
‘That’s our walnut tree, Eddie, for our tomorrows are going to be full of walnut shell day
s, just like today.’
She stood still suddenly as from the past a well-loved voice came to her. It’s a day that’s beautiful because you are with the person you love most in all the world . . . Victoria listened to the beloved voice and smiled mistily at her husband. ‘Now, Eddie, if you and Davie lift it and put it in, Mother and I will finish planting it.’
Catriona said nothing, but her eyes were wet with tears as she watched her husband, her son and her new son-in-law manoeuvre the walnut tree into its new home. The men walked off to the brook to sail leaf boats for Andrew, and Victoria and her mother were left alone.
‘This is for Grampa, Mother, and for you, and for dear Davie who has brought so much happiness into our lives.’ And Victoria knelt down on the grass and firmed the soil around the tree’s roots with her hands. She laughed as the good Angus earth dulled her tiny diamond, and she brushed her ring clean on her skirt.
Catriona knelt beside her and took handfuls of soil which she patted into place around the base of the sapling. ‘And it’s for dear Flora, who will soon be the new Lady Inchmarnock, and for Nellie and her family, and for your Eddie, Victoria, and for all the people who will belong here after us, and especially for you. I couldn’t have wished for a better daughter.’
They were Angus farm folk. They were unused to the kisses on the cheeks that other people used, often with little meaning, but their hearts were full. And there on the ground they leaned towards one another and Catriona held her daughter in her arms, as she had done when she was a child, and Victoria held her mother, and together they thought of all the people they had mentioned.
‘And it’s for all the others who mean so much to us, Mother. Mr Smart and all the Menmuirs, and even Arbuthnott Boatman and Lord Inchmarnock. Do you think they’re too grand to want to be in a walnut shell?’
‘Och, lassie,’ said Catriona, getting up rather stiffly from the ground. ‘Is there a person in the world who doesn’t need the memory of a walnut shell day? Be happy here, lassie, with your Eddie, all the days of your life.’
Acknowledgements
Thank you to all the writers who share so much, especially Hugh Rae, Sheila Lewis and Elizabeth Sutherland.
Welcome to the world of Eileen Ramsay!
Keep reading for more from Eileen Ramsay, including a recipe that features in this novel and a sneak peek at Eileen’s next book, A Pinch of Salt . . .
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Dear Friends,
Twenty years or so ago, My Weekly ran a competition for a serial. I wanted to enter and so I sat down to think about what I could write. What did I know that readers might find interesting and, what was I prepared to write about which I did not know but was prepared to find out? I remembered that in Teacher Training College I had had to dress a doll in the costume of its, supposed, native land and collect as much information about said country as possible. This was part of every teaching student’s life; in order to be a good teacher one had to show some skills in Art, Music, sewing and knitting. I could sing and play the piano – ‘well enough for infants’ according to the music teacher – and ‘tried to be neat’, according to the art teacher. I decided that the only way for me to pass this step to graduation was to find a country that no one else, including the teachers, knew much about. I struggled with this one and then remembered that one of the lovely air force wives at the nearby US base was Mexican/American.
Mexico. I canvassed friends, even rather clever ones. Few were sure where Mexico was. Perfect.
Dress a doll? Me? No. In one of Margarita Rosa’s magazines I found a picture of an Olmec head. Not a doll, but very Mexican. The art department gave me a ball of clay which I squeezed here and there and voila – Olmec head. I put him on a board I had painted yellow – the desert – and on which a friend, much against her will, had painted a Saguaro cactus. I was halfway to a pass. I learned some songs in Spanish. Then Margarita suggested that I write to ‘el regente’ or mayor of her hometown.
Eventually I did, explaining that I could find little information about Mexico in the local libraries and travel agents. Time passed and the art room was full of Spanish senoritas, Irish Colleens, Welsh ladies holding daffodils, an Eskimo and a very heavy, incredibly ugly Olmec head. Then one day the postman arrived with a large parcel – for me. It was packed full of books – geography books, maps and even music, art and history books and they were written in three of Mexico’s languages; Spanish, French and English. The mayor had never had a letter from a foreign student and invited me to visit. Unfortunately I never managed but after my husband and I moved to California, I studied Spanish and Mexican music and culture in Cuernavaca and Mexico City. Therefore I knew I would try to share some of my love of this ‘beloved country’ in a story.
I also wanted to set the story in Angus where we live, looking across fields to the sea. Not our fields but belonging to farmers who made us welcome from the start, even though we had very large dogs and gave our sons Jacob sheep and hens as pets. Our hens laid eggs everywhere and the ones I couldn’t find always hatched and became chickens that scratched up our neighbour’s seeds. The Jacobs could jump everything but the paddock wall and often we had phone calls from patient neighbours who never berated us when they found one or two really lovely Jacobs eating their flowers.
So, The Farm Girl’s Dream was born.
Our sons are now grown and their children love to visit us – we no longer have sheep or hens and the children are content to note the miracles of the changing seasons, ‘From Granny’s window.’
And, by the way, I won the competition.
Best wishes,
Eileen
Walnut shell day picnic griddle scones
These scones are delicious with any topping but I love them served warm with proper butter and a cup of tea.
You will need:
200g (8oz) self-raising flour
25g (1oz) caster sugar
25g (1oz) butter
1 medium egg
75ml (3 fl oz) milk
How to make the griddle scones:
1.Combine flour and sugar. Rub in butter.
2.Mix to a soft dough with egg and milk.
3.Knead lightly, divide into ten pieces, and roll each scone into a 5mm– (1/4inch) thick circle.
4.Cook over a greased griddle for about 2 minutes on each side or until golden.
5.Serve hot with butter or honey.
Victoria’s vegetable soup
Be ‘pioneers’ like Victoria and her mother and use up whatever is in your cupboards to make a warming soup. Or follow this simple recipe.
You will need:
1 knob butter
1 onion (chopped finely)
1 stick celery (diced)
1 leek (sliced)
1 large carrot (diced)
1 large swede (diced)
1 potato
300ml (10 fl oz) vegetable stock
salt and pepper, to taste
All you have to do is:
1.Sauté onion, celery and leek in butter until softened.
2.Add carrot, swede and potato and cook for two minutes.
3.Pour in vegetable stock and simmer for twenty minutes. Season to taste.
Enjoy this sneak peek at Eileen’s new novel A Pinch of Salt
IT SEEMED AS if she had been running for hours; there was a stitch in her side that was almost unbearable but she knew that if she stopped, if she fell to the ground and sobbed as every fibre of her small being implored her to do, she would never find the strength to get up and so she kept going. She had to keep going or Mam would die, it was as simple as that.
You haven’t run that far, she told herself. It’s no even a mile tae the doctor’s and no a mile frae his house tae the pit.
‘Doctor’s at the accident,’ h
ad said Dr Hyslop’s very superior housekeeper, ‘and certainly will have no time for the likes of you tonight, Kate.’ Her sniff implied that he would never have time for the likes of Kate Kennedy, but Kate knew better. Doctor Hyslop always had a smile or a word even though she sometimes found it hard to understand what he was saying.
‘Speaks wi’ bools in his mooth’, was how the mining fraternity described the cultured tones of the village doctor, and then, of course, there was the terrible speech impediment that – so rumour had it – had prevented him from becoming a rich and famous surgeon in a place called Harley Street.
Kate ran on, her breath coming in laboured gasps. She could not go on but she did, proving, not for the first time in her short life that the will is stronger than mere bone and muscle. One leg followed the other, her breath was ripped painfully from her throat and tears, of which she was completely unaware, ran down her cheeks. They were tears of frustration and impotence and naked fear. Why was the doctor not at home when she got there? Why did there have to be an accident down the pit, that loathsome open jaw that gaped open farther and farther under the ground; for months it stayed quiet, almost acquiescing in the rape and plunder of its precious fruit and then, when they were lulled into a false sense of security – it roared, demanding sacrifice – but why tonight of all nights?
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