Flora's War

by Audrey Reimann

Robert rolled over and poked his head into the light. ‘Can’t you leave me alone?’ he said. ‘You are always going on at me.’ He opened his eyes and, seeing his mother’s wild eyes glittering with menace, added, ‘I am not going to work on the farm today.’

  ‘You certainly are. Mr Hamilton’s expecting you.’

  ‘Then Mr Hamilton’s losing his marbles.’ Robert threw back the covers and uncurled his six foot two inches of thin, wiry body. He said, ‘I told him yesterday that I should not be at the farm today.’

  He slept naked, Ruth knew, to annoy her. She quickly averted her eyes and went to the door to put an arm around Edward’s shoulders. ‘You did what?’ She could feel anger rising in her. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s a cruel swine,’ Robert answered, pulling on his underpants, his back to them. ‘And if I see him drag another new-born calf out of a cow and leave it to die because it is weak and not a heifer, I’ll give him the hiding of his life!’

  He meant it. He could not stand cruelty and neither could Father. If Father knew the half of it, he’d foreclose on Hamilton’s lease. And if Father had seen Edward ratting with Hamilton … going after the rats they had smoked out of the drains and killing them with spades and shovels … Hamilton yelling with delight, Edward with fear, when they smashed the squealing creatures into a pulp, he would have felt as revolted as Robert himself. There was no need to be cruel, even to vermin. Mike Hamilton had his ratting dogs that could tear a rat to pieces in a split second if they caught it. Mother kept strychnine to poison them.

  ‘What nonsense you talk!’ Mother said. ‘You have a typical townsman’s view. You think that country life is all about picking flowers …’ She turned to Edward. ‘You’d gladly help Mr Hamilton, wouldn’t you?’ but did not wait for a reply before adding, ‘Were it not for the fact that the hunt is a man short–’

  ‘A man?’ Robert went to the bed, rummaged, unearthed a jersey and pulled it over his skinny ribs. ‘Edward’s thirteen. About the same age as the fox, I suppose.’

  Robert was sick of it all. He was sick of Mother and, though he loved his brother, sick of Edward, who was pampered and indulged by both Mother and Father. He was also heartily sick of Hamilton, who blew hot and cold; one day crawling and ingratiating because he knew Robert would inherit the estate, the next off-hand if he thought Robert was spending too much time with Lucy and Phoebe.

  This was hurtful to Robert, whose only haven of peace and normality – whose only experience of home life – had been found in the company of the Hamilton womenfolk. He could walk into their house, into their kitchen as if it were his own and always they were pleased to see him. Hamilton was seldom there; he was inclined to eat on the run and expected Lucy to provide a hot meal whenever he wanted one.

  Now he said to Mother, ‘On your way out, give my apologies to Mrs Hamilton and Phoebe,’ knowing she would do that. Mother spent a lot of time supervising, bossing Hamilton and his family. If Robert were a farmer he wouldn’t tolerate the owner’s wife coming round every day to see that he was running the farm properly.

  ‘You can afford a week with no pay, then?’ Mother said. Mike Hamilton gave him three pounds a week for thirty-six hours’ work. ‘And what shall I say has kept you from your work?’

  In the old days, before he grew six inches in a year, she’d have taken her riding whip to him for what he said next. He was pulling on his flannel trousers, fastening them as he said, ‘You can tell Hamilton to stuff his job where the monkeys stuff their nuts’. Mother was outraged. She said to Edward, ‘I don’t want you to listen to this, darling–’

  ‘I’m old enough. And Robert’s right, Mummy,’ Edward began, but seeing her expression, ‘all right. I’ll wait in the car,’ and turned tail and fled back down the attic stairs.

  Mother came to stand over Robert. She liked to challenge him to retaliate so that she could go to Father and demand that Robert be punished or sent away – anything to discredit him in Father’s eyes. What she was really aiming for was for Father to disown him and make Edward heir to the estate. This amused Robert. There would be nothing left to inherit, the way things were going.

  Father had confided in him that the farm would soon have to be sold to the Hamiltons who, with Lucy’s own fortune and Davey Hamilton’s farm coming to Mike one day, were better off than the Campbells would ever be. The remaining Ingersley land would have to be sold to developers and builders. Estates of council and private developments were growing apace – right to the walls of Ingersley. Father said that they could not hold out much longer. There never had been enough money to maintain the house. The grass-cutting and gardening was contracted out to a local company and the house employed only a housemaid and cook – and these because they were old retainers who could not afford to leave their tied cottages. Mother made sure of that.

  She was standing over him, her hands on her hips, feet planted apart and, in scathing tones, saying, ‘If I had suspected when you were born that you were going to turn out to be a rude, lazy good-for-nothing …’

  Robert looked up from fastening his trousers and gave a wry grin. ‘What would you have done? Drowned me or fed me that poisonous medicine with which you cure all ills?’ This in reference to her sedative tonic – a contradiction if he’d ever heard one – which, she had ruled, he was to take three times a day to cool his violent temper and improve his stamina, because it was full of iron, which gave it its bitter taste.

  She ignored his rudeness for once. ‘I said, what are you doing that is more important than your job at the farm?’

  ‘Father wants to take me to Edinburgh. To see Andrew Stewart, the detective sergeant.’

  ‘Andrew Stewart?’ Her voice went high and querulous. Robert looked at her quickly. She was very pale, though he didn’t think she was afraid of anyone. She, like Edward, was strong-willed and reckless, but she was definitely ruffled as she said, ‘I didn’t think your father had anything to do with the Stewarts.’

  ‘You don’t really know much then, do you, Mother?’ he replied. She had split the family by the old divide-and-rule method she had perfected, pitting Father and himself against her and Edward so that the two halves of the family led almost separate lives. They only came together in the evening for supper at seven, and that was conducted with the hideous, false politeness that could take away the appetite of anyone who had less hunger than he. And it was all to no avail. The odd one out was not himself nor Edward nor even Father. Father and his two sons had respect and love for one another. It was Mother who wreaked havoc on the family. He said, ‘Father’s very fond of Andrew Stewart. I like him too. I have met him several times at regattas.’

  ‘Nanny won’t like this,’ Mother said.

  ‘What has Nanny to do with it?’

  ‘Nanny won’t approve of your father allowing you to mix with the lower orders,’ was all she could come up with.

  Robert laughed drily. Nanny was the least snobbish person he had ever met. ‘What’s the matter? It’s not Nanny. It’s you who doesn’t approve of Father and me going to see a detective.’ Then, to rekindle her fury, he said, ‘Not trying to kill us, are you?’

  Mother composed herself, drew in her breath, then exhaled fast, as if nauseated. ‘You really are a nasty piece of work!’ she said. ‘Perhaps a sleuth could throw a little light on your behaviour.’

  With that, she left him alone to wonder what Father and Andrew Stewart had in mind for him. Andrew had no doubt been recruited to supply back-up for Father and Nanny.

  He went to the window and watched Mother and Edward roar off through the South Gate in the big shooting-brake that Mother drove fast and furiously. And though he asked himself what sort of a man he was that he couldn’t stop himself from being rude to his mother, he knew, he had always known, that she hated him.

  And he knew as well that he hated himself for what he had become. Four years ago, when he first stood up to a bully, he had been proud. But what sort of person was he now? He was aggressive, though not in his own defence; he was
not particularly clever, and, were it not for the father he admired and loved and knew would miss him, he’d up sticks and disappear out of their lives at the first opportunity.

  He could make a living, he was sure, doing as he heard people did in America, bumming around, picking up casual work, singing and playing his way across the country until he found a partner. It would be a quarter of a century before his hale and hearty father would come to the end of his life and expect Robert to carry on in his place. In fact Father had said to him on more than one occasion, ‘It’s all for you, Robert. I’ve held on to it for you but you can see how little is left. When your time comes, boy, sell up. Give your brother his share but don’t saddle yourself with keeping up an old property that has had its day.’

  Robert took a drink of water then sat down, picked up his guitar and tuned it, tightening, plucking and strumming. The only talents he had were perfect pitch, a facility for learning any musical instrument and a singing voice that he knew would take him far, given the opportunity.

  He began to play, at first desultorily and then with feeling, American country and western songs that had evolved from old Scottish and European folk songs a couple of centuries ago. He sang along as he played ‘The Red River Valley’ and his rich tenor voice carried out through the open window and gladdened the heart of Nanny, who had come over to see him and was in the dining room two storeys below him. And since nobody else was about, Nanny went to the window, opened it a little way the better to hear her darling boy, and sang along in a thin, reedy voice, substituting her own words for the traditional ones:

  ‘From this valley they say you are going, I will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile … They say you are taking the sunshine … That brightened our pathway a while … Come sit by my side if you love me … Do not hasten to bid me adieu … But remember the Red River Valley … And your Nanny who loved you so true.’

  Then, unaccountably, remembering Flora and Alexander, she began to cry.

  Sir Gordon Campbell dropped Robert off at Royal Terrace. Andrew went down to the front desk to greet him and was jolted to see the change in Robert. He was tall – almost as tall as Andrew himself – with dark, wavy hair and the greeny-blue eyes that normally went with red hair. Eyes of that colour and shape always brought thoughts of Flora back to him – like a scent, such things went straight to the part of the brain that conjured up sweet memories. But practice had taught him to dismiss such thoughts and concentrate on the job in hand. He had been drawn to the boy every time they had met and now he put out his hand. ‘Shall we go up to my office, Robert?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the boy in a rich, deep voice. He shook Andrew’s hand then stood back to let Andrew go first. He had impeccable manners, acquired no doubt from his father and the expensive schools that had also made him reserved and, by his father’s account, quietly aggressive.

  Andrew told him to be seated, then began to talk to him in a fatherly way, pointing out the advantages of the Royal Navy and the Dartmouth training course, as Sir Gordon had requested. He said, ‘Your father was, still is, a heroic figure. Not only to me, though I have everything to thank him for. He is one of the most loved and respected men in Scotland today.’

  Robert looked thoughtful and worried by turns as they talked, and as he responded Andrew found himself again drawn to the boy who was in many ways like himself – born and brought up on the Ingersley estate; a good-looking boy, musically gifted, whose perfect manners hid a rebellious, uncompromising nature that struck a chord with Andrew.

  ‘I agree,’ Robert said. His dark eyebrows were drawn together and his wide, generous mouth was held firm as if he were restraining himself. ‘Nobody could have a better father than I. If it were not for him, I’d clear off.’ He smiled. ‘I haven’t forgotten your talking to me like a Dutch uncle when I ran away.’

  ‘You were very young then,’ Andrew said. ‘But now you ought to pull your socks up. You are the elder son. You will come into the title and the estate in time. Shouldn’t you prepare for it? Follow in your father’s footsteps?’

  ‘I don’t have much interest in the title – though I love the land and estate,’ Robert said. Then he added bitterly, ‘In that respect, I am more like my mother.’ He’d tried to sound matter-of-fact, and had failed. His feelings for his mother, then, were the root of the problem.

  Andrew said, ‘What about the Royal Navy?’ Robert looked down at his hands. He seemed to be withdrawing from the exchange. Andrew waited, then said, ‘Well?’

  ‘I won’t join the Royal Navy,’ said Robert. Then, as if he had decided he could trust Andrew, it all came tumbling out. ‘I enjoy the sea and sailing but if I went into the Royal Navy it would have to be a career. It couldn’t be anything less, with Father to live up to. If I get through the medical – and it’s doubtful because I have asthma – I shall have to do my National Service but I’ll do it in the army. I don’t want to have authority over anyone but myself. And since I’ll never be allowed to make decisions, I don’t want to live at home … Does that make sense?’

  ‘Yes.’ It made perfect sense to Andrew. There was no point in pursuing that line. ‘You are musically talented, your father tells me?’

  ‘Well, I play the piano. And the guitar. I write songs.’ He laughed. ‘I sing. And all that sounds like boasting.’

  ‘Not at all. What do you want to do with all this talent?’ Andrew was smiling broadly. He said, ‘Do you like opera, musical comedy, or – who’s that American singer who plays guitars and sings?’

  ‘Elvis Presley. The blues singer. Yes, I do like him,’ Robert said. ‘What I’d really love to do is go to America – to Nashville, Tennessee and take my chances–’

  ‘Blues?’ Andrew said. ‘I thought that was Bing Crosby?’

  Robert laughed a big, hearty laugh. ‘No, Bing Crosby is a crooner.’

  ‘Why Nashville?’ Andrew wanted to know. All this was foreign to him, but he was enjoying himself chatting with Robert.

  ‘The radio is the big thing there. Music stations all day long. Almost anybody can get on the air; country folks, some with little talent and no formal training, go to Nashville to get on the radio, and it has made some very big stars.’

  ‘So you are not snobbish about music, Robert?’

  ‘No, I like all music,’ he said, and his face lit up with enthusiasm. ‘Have you heard of Ernie Ford, Johnny Cash, Hawkshaw Hawkins, Hank Snow, Hank Williams …?’

  Andrew laughed out loud. ‘No. Stop! Never heard of them. But if you want a chance to sing, you could join the operatic society. I’m a member. They are a good crowd. And always short of male singers.’

  He was letting his enthusiasm for singing become infectious. Singing was a great way to wind down, to get one’s mind completely off the daily troubles and problems of a policeman’s life. Police work hardened a man. He said, ‘It’s a good way, for me, to let off steam, Robert. To realise that there is a world of art and imagination out there. But I imagine you are well aware of all that?’

  Robert’s face was still lit up. Music, then, was the key. He said, ‘There’s a lot going on in Edinburgh. Have you heard of The Place? On Victoria Street, below the Central Library?’

  ‘Yes. You go down steps, floor after floor. Musicians of all kinds play there. Folk and popular music. Ever heard of the Corries?’ Robert smiled and visibly relaxed.

  ‘Er, no,’ Andrew said. Young Robert knew more about the Edinburgh music scene than he did.

  ‘I’m saving a bit of money. If I get to university there’s plenty going on – dancing and jazz clubs, pop music, folk, trad …’

  ‘Oh. You’ll get there. And have a wonderful time,’ Andrew said. ‘And you’ll be pleasing your father.’

  ‘I’ll join your operatic society. I might find a singing partner.’

  ‘You very well might,’ said Andrew. ‘I look forward to introducing you to the crowd.’ With that he shook Robert’s hand and saw him to the door. Sir Gordon Campbell was blessed in his elder son.


  From that interview on they met frequently and Andrew saw Robert begin to blossom, ease up and enjoy himself. Occasionally he asked the boy to crew for him and there, on the ketch, crossing the water or sailing from Granton to Dunbar, a closeness grew between them that worried Andrew.

  He was becoming protective of Robert, concerned if he didn’t hear from him for a few weeks, then arranging meetings and sailings so he’d have the boy’s company. He was pleased out of all proportion when Robert dropped into the station to see him and sat on the end of the desk telling him all the boyish irrelevancies that young men have on their minds: girls, food, an illicit beer and girls again, for it appeared that Robert had struck up a friendship that was not yet a romance with Phoebe Hamilton and was troubled by the fact that the Hamiltons were not encouraging, though they had welcomed him into their home for years. Andrew was glad that Robert was enjoying life but was worried that this one young man was bringing him such pleasure.

  Andrew told Ma about it and she said, ‘It’s time you got married and had sons of your ain.’ She did not understand.

  There was one occasion that afterwards haunted Andrew because he felt he had let Robert down. They had sailed down to Dunbar on a cold autumn morning, tied up and gone into a harbourside bar for a beer. A welcoming coal fire blazed in the public bar, and they were sitting warming themselves, talking seriously about Robert’s chances of passing his Highers, the passport to university, when Robert suddenly said, ‘Do you ever feel as if part of you is missing – that you don’t really belong?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ Andrew replied. It was the way he’d felt when he realised that he had lost Flora.

  ‘I have this feeling – I have had this all my life, that out there …’ he waved an arm towards the sea ‘… is my other half.’

  Andrew said, ‘You mean the girl for you?’

  ‘No. Though it could be that, I suppose.’ His brows drew together as he frowned into his beer. ‘When I was a kid, I used to have this imaginary friend, Sandy. Sandy was as real to me as if he were my brother.’ He seemed to be searching for the right words. ‘Have you ever loved anyone more than you love yourself or your family?’