It was close to noon by the time Megan left with her father. Avram walked them out part of the way until the wagon could pick up some speed, then he waved them off. Walking back, as the wagon drifted out of earshot, he realised how still and quiet everything was. There was hardly a ripple across the face of the loch, the few clouds hung motionless, there was not a bird in the sky. Even the gurgling of the burn was too far away to be heard. The few black-faced sheep on the hillside stood stationary watching his every move. He quickened his pace until he was running back to the cottage.
The bicycle lay on the ground where Kenny Kennedy had unloaded it. He lifted it up, propped it against a wall, thought about what he could do to make it right. He found some sandpaper to scrape off the rust. A rag dipped in fish-oil from the cruisie greased up the chain. He was ready to go.
There was a rough furrow in the hillside for about a hundred yards above the cottage, a dried-up bed from when the stream would overflow. He used that slope and groove to give him both the momentum and the opportunity to kick out at the small banks on either side for balance. The gamekeeper was right. The countryside was a good place to break his fall, for that was all he did – hurtle down the slope until he pitched to one side or the other, sending the bicycle clattering to the ground. Then he would get back on his feet, push the bike up the slope, start again. After two hours, he could ride down the hillside without losing his balance a score of yards more than when he had started. He had a bloody knee and scratched forearms, but he felt more cheerful for his pains.
He cleaned himself up in the burn, ate the bannocks, some milk and leftover cheese for his lunch. He discovered a pit dug out as a latrine, evacuated his bowels over the hole, wiped himself with some ripped-up newspapers. Before covering over his deposit with loose soil, he noticed no difference in either colour or consistency from his usual stools and wondered if Mrs Kennedy’s bacon had yet made its contaminated journey through his system.
Late afternoon, he prepared a small fire on the grate then went down to the loch with the hook, rod and line the gamekeeper said he was sure to find. Following a path of flattened reeds, he reached a flat rock which his uncle must have used as his fishing perch. For bait, he cut off a slice from the tube of vursht Madame Kahn had sent with him for her brother. He cast off as best as he could and waited, letting his thoughts drift with his line.
“So what do you think of this, Celia Kahn?” he said to his reflection in the loch. “Here I am fishing for our supper. What are you doing up in the cottage? Sweeping the stone floor and making scones? Boiling a kettle for my tea, are you, Celia Kahn? Are you milking the cow and scratching after the chickens for eggs? Are you sewing up my socks, cutting up your skin for lack of a silver thimble on your finger?”
He foraged in his pocket for the amber box, letting the smoothness rub up and along his palm as he concentrated on his fishing. Then, quickly, as if his hand was acting independently of his thoughts, he grasped the box, tore it out of his pocket, pitched it hard over the loch. He watched it fly until it hit the water. The box bobbed on the surface for a few seconds then sank. He imagined it floating down in the darkness, nudging past the snouts of hungry fish until it rested among a tangle of reeds at the cold bottom of this silent place. He gulped down the tightness that had risen like a pebble in his throat, shook himself straight and recast his line.
He settled back down, decided instead to concentrate on practical thoughts. He thought of stoking up the fire and turning the peat. He thought of putting the jug of milk out overnight, bringing in a pitcher of water from the burn, soaking some oats for the morning. He thought to bring out the bedding and letting it air in the sunshine.
There was a plop in the water. He felt a swift nibble at his line. He pulled the rod up sharp, it caught and he whipped the line out of the water. A fish wriggled frantically on the hook. He was so excited he almost let go of the rod as he swung the creature round to the flat of the rock. The fish must have been nearly two feet long and he could see the hook gnawing right through the flesh of its mouth. He wasn’t used to the slippery skin. The scales felt rough and slimy in his hands. The unblinking eyes registered terror. He squeezed a couple of fingers into the silky gulping purse of a mouth, wrenched out the hook in a scrape of flesh and blood. Holding the writhing body down with one hand, he searched around his perch until his fingers settled on a small rock. The trout or salmon or whatever it was almost wrenched free, but quickly he slammed the rock down on to its head. The struggle immediately went out of the creature although the tail still wriggled with a life of its own. Tiny bones had ruptured the flesh, blood smeared the rock. But the eyes were still intact. They looked back at him with both fear and compassion. Fear of death. Compassion for the killer. He realised he knew that look. He had seen it encompassed by the dark circles around Nathan’s eyes. He thumped the rock back down on to the fish-head. And again. And again. The fishing perch was now a mess of bone and silver scale and blood and flesh. A yellow eye clung to the rock in his hand. He stopped pounding now, grinding the rock against the squashed remnants as he waited for his breathing to settle. He scraped what was left of the fish back into the loch, scooped some water up to clean off the stone surface. Next time, he would bring a knife to cut his catch’s throat swiftly and without fuss.
Everything had died down into stillness again. A dying sun cast shadows across the glens, darkened the reflections on the water. Clouds of midgies hovered and swooped above the loch. A hawk beat a silent path across the sky. He turned and looked around him. There could not have been another soul for miles. On the journey in the Kennedy’s wagon up from Lorn to Glenkura, there had not been sight nor sound of another cottage or steading. He knew that when the light began to fade, the night would bring its own terrors for him. But he had built his fire to fend off his fears as best he could. For now, it was so quiet he thought he could hear the silence. Like a hum vibrating through his soul.
That night, the black emptiness of the countryside provided an unwelcome vacuum for his dreams. From his raft adrift on the horizon, he still could recognise the figure of his mother at the quayside. But she was faceless now. There was no storm either, just a vast expanse of water, eerie in its stillness. Papa Kahn stood by his side, as did Jacob Stein. On a bed in the centre of the craft lay Nathan. The boy was conscious, his face bruised, bloodied and terribly disfigured.
“I gave you my pain,” Avram admitted.
“No, Avram, it is the war,” Nathan said evenly, despite his immense suffering. “So many have died.”
“So many have died,” Papa Kahn repeated solemnly.
“But not you, Avram,” said Jacob Stein. “For you are to be a credit draper.”
Twenty-eight
IT WAS DEEP INTO THE NIGHT when he awoke to a light thudding sound at the door. At first, he thought the noise came from the snout or claw of a wild deer, a fox or even a sheep, but then he realised it was the scratching of a hand searching the cottage door for its handle.
“Uncle Mendel,” he whispered.
There was no reply. Just the click of the handle as it turned downwards.
“Uncle Mendel?”
The door opened. Backlit by the moon, a shrouded figure stood at the entrance.
“Uncle Mendel?” His voice shook from the realisation that the shape standing in the doorway was far too small to be that of his adopted uncle. He slipped his hand from underneath the bedclothes, his fingers searching desperately for the iron poker lying in the hearth. The figure took a couple of steps into the cottage.
“I’ve got a poker,” he shouted.
The intruder stopped. “No, ye havenae.”
“Bloody hell! It’s you.”
“Is that a way to greet a lady?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Have ye no a match to light a cruisie?”
He wrapped himself in his blanket, got out of bed, scrambled for the matches on the table by the window, lit the oil-soaked wick. The flame flickered to life,
showing up Megan standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a maid’s uniform, a shawl drawn around her face. Some burrs clung to her black stockings. Her shoes and the lower part of her apron were splattered with mud.
“What happened?”
“I’ve run away.”
He saw she was trembling.
“I’ll get us warm,” he said. He quickly set about stoking up the fire, set a kettle above it when the flames took to the peat. Megan sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head against the wall, watching him. She let her shawl drop around her shoulders, her hair shining in the flickering light as if it were her own personal beacon.
“Are you hungry?”
She nodded.
He brewed a pot of tea, cut her some slices of vursht. She looked at the meat suspiciously.
“It’s German sausage,” he explained.
“I thought we were at war with them.”
“More for you, less for the Germans, then.”
He was glad to hear her laugh, for she looked so close to tears. She folded the slice of meat in half, popped it into her mouth. Her hands were still shaking.
He passed her a cup of tea. “Put your palms around that. It’ll warm you up. I’ve got some milk if you want it.”
“Black’s fine.” She took a sip to wash down the meat. “Yer no bad with the fire for a city boy.”
“I’m better with coal. I’m not used to this peat. So what happened?”
“I dinnae ken what I’ve done. But I just cannae take it there.”
“What? You were only there half a day.”
“Aye, it’s all right for you to say. I saw from the first moment how it was going to be. Her ladyship was fine. She kent faither from him being the gamie. And I was all full of curtsies and ‘yes and no, your ladyship’. But I’m no workin’ for her. Like I said, I’m to be a servant’s servant.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, aye it can. The worst mistresses are servants themselves. Ordering me to do this and that for no more reason than to look down their long noses at me. A few hours into my uniform and the butler and the clerk of works with no hands for their tasks, but plenty for pushing me against the pantry wall and pushing up my skirts.” She plunged her face into her hands. He had a feeling to reach out and touch her but held back. Instead, he watched the firelight display their lanky shadows against the wall opposite until the shudders in her back subsided.
“What will you do now?” he asked.
She lifted her head. Her cheeks glistened red from the fire’s heat and the salt of her tears. “I didnae leave with any grand plan. It was either here or Jean Munro’s place. But that was too far in the night. I can go hame but ma faither’ll just beat me raw and send me back. I might go back to the Laird myself. Or I might find my way to the city. I’ll ken better in the morn’s light.”
“Well, you can have the cot.”
“That’s kind of ye. But I wouldnae want ye to kip on the cold stane floor.”
“It’s not so bad. Last night I slept on a bed of straw. With two cows for company.”
She laughed. “We could try a wee bit of bundling.”
“Bundling?”
“Aye, bundling. Ye wrap yerself in yer blanket and I’ll wrap up in my shawl and we’ll share this mattress together like two good Kirkgoing folk.”
She stood up, stretched to unhook the back of her uniform. “If ye don’t mind damping down the fire, I’ll need to take this off. I may need it in the morn if I decide to return.”
He turned away to sprinkle some water on the flames, tidy up the hearth, but his attention was more on the sound of Megan’s clothes falling to the floor than on any fireside order. He heard the cot creak and he put out the cruisie. Wrapping himself in his own blanket, he lay down beside her.
The cot was narrow, but lying on his back he managed to keep a good inch between himself and Megan’s rolled-up frame. He watched the moonlit shadows play across the bracken roof, thought of Solly and how he would probably have an arm around Megan by now, giving her a ‘Frenchie’. He twisted his head slightly in her direction. Her breathing had eased to regular, her eyes were closed, her shift had fallen slightly off her shoulder exposing just the hint of the furrow between her breasts. He looked away, too excited to contemplate sleep. He listened to the night roll on to its deepest point before it sighed and moved on towards the dawn. There were no eerie noises from ghosts and beasts to be heard, just Megan’s soft breath soothing him until he eventually drifted into slumber.
When he awoke, she was gone from the bed.
At first, he thought she had left him completely. But there was a fire burning in the grate and the cottage door was left open to let in a shaft of the morning sunshine and the sound of her singing. He dressed quickly, rushed outside. She sat hunched over the burn, her shawl draped over her shift, scrubbing her apron clean on some rocks. He stayed back and listened.
“… I am my mammie’s ae bairn
Wi’ unco folk I weary, Sir
And lying in a man’s bed
I’m fleyed it make me eerie, Sir.
I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young
I’m o’er young to marry yet!
I’m o’er young, ‘t wad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammie yet.
I am my mammie’s ae bairn
Wi’unco folk..”
She looked up from her task, smiled at him sweetly as if he were her very own husband standing before her. “Good morn,” she said.
He picked up a pebble from the side of the stream, threw it in the direction of the loch. He watched it fall way short of its destination. He had no idea why he had done that. “Have you made up your mind?” he asked.
“Are ye weary from me already?”
“I just wanted to know.”
She stopped her scrubbing. “Dinnae worry. I’m going back to the Laird’s castle.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why? Would ye like me to stay here?”
Avram blushed. And she smirked at him as if she had achieved some little victory.
“Look, I’ve nae choice,” she said, not waiting for his answer. “I cannae go hame. I cannae stay here with yer uncle coming back. Not that I’ve asked yer permission, mind ye. And the stories of young girls alone in the city are not pleasing. I’ll return to the castle to suffer my fate.”
“All things considered,” he said, “that seems the best thing to do.”
“That’s very sensible of ye. Ye sound like ma faither.”
“You told me your father would beat you raw for what you’ve done.”
“Aye, yer right. I’m sorry.” She stood up, held out the hem of her shift, performed a mock curtsy. “I thank ye for yer hospitality, kind sir.”
He ignored the gesture. “How far is it? To the castle?”
“Six miles or more. Depends if ye fly like the crow or ye canter along the bridleways.”
“I’ll see you part of the way then.”
“That’s kind of ye.”
“But I’ll need to be back here before the Sabbath starts.”
“By tomorrow morn?”
“No, no. The Jewish Sabbath. This evening when the first star appears.”
“That’s a fine custom,” she said. “It has a common sense about it.”
Even dressed in a maid’s uniform, she strutted beside him with a sense of ownership of the land worthy of any laird. She could name the birds from their song, place each sheep with its owner from the brand on its flanks, point out the shielings for the summer shearing. She stopped to pick bluebells for her hair, a feather off the ground to wave as she walked. She was full of stories of the shire, the gossip of the villages, the scandals at the castle. He envied her this rootedness in place, for he drifted over this world like the mist on the hillside. Like a wandering Jew. Like a credit draper.
With a nose for the direction of her destination, she led him on paths no more than sheep tracks across the hillsides, ways she knew from
playing as a child with her older brother. She described Jamie as a big lump of a lad but handy with a rifle. Just a glimpse of a tail or a snout was all he needed to find his target. She imagined him picking off easy any German soldier who dared put his head above the trench line. That was how she preferred to visualise Jamie’s war. As a sniper. Hidden away from the action. Invulnerable. Always the hunter, never the hunted.
By midday, the coach-road came into sight where it split west for the Laird’s castle, north for Glencoe, south for Lorn and Glenkura. They scrambled down the scree, turned into the Laird’s estates where the terrain changed immediately. Fir trees were set out orderly to mark the road, there was an orchard of apple trees standing among its shed blossom, the stone walls were properly maintained, the land was flatter, given up to acres of barley and cattle, not just sheep and crofts. She dropped away from him a few paces, became silent.
He heard the dull humming noise first, dismissed it as a party of bees hovering around a hive or a cluster of pollen. And as the drone grew louder so did the size of the swarm in his imagination. Megan cocked an ear to the sound too and soon she was scanning the sky.
“Bees?” he asked.
Before she had time to answer, the flying machine burst into view, skimming through the tops of the trees lining the road. Instinctively, he dived for cover under the gorse bushes on the side of the road. Megan fell in right behind him. The bi-plane passed overhead, its engine coughing as it circled the open field beyond the whin.
“It’s an aeroplane,” he shouted. “It’s a bloody aeroplane.”
“Is it a Gerry?”
“Don’t be silly.” But he checked the red, white and blue roundels on the wing to be sure. “It’s one of ours,” he yelled. He clambered out through the gorse, ran out into the field, his eyes fixed to the sky. The plane circled again and he could see the pilot lean out of his cockpit to inspect the ground. The engine stuttered then picked up again. The pilot took his machine on one more long loop away from the field, lined up straight then dropped down to land. The plane bounced and skidded as it hit the uneven surface, hit a bump and veered over dangerously so that its lower wing scraped the ground, throwing up a spray of earth. Avram saw the pilot wrestle with his controls, grinding the rudder against the swerve. Then the aeroplane twisted to one side and came to a halt just before a row of bushes. By the time Avram had reached the craft, the engine had coughed and died but the propeller was still cranking down. The pilot eased himself up on to the back of his cockpit, swept off his leather helmet and goggles.
The Credit Draper Page 18