Highland Sisters

by Anne Douglas

  Sixty-Five

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked as she took a step away from him, keeping her eyes on the face that was still recognizably his though so changed, so sad and cold as she had never before seen it.

  ‘Tell you what? That I’d lost my right arm? My painting arm?’ Jack’s mouth twisted. ‘I could scarcely believe it myself – how could I have told you?’

  ‘It must have been terrible,’ she whispered. ‘Terrible. How … how did it happen?’

  He shook his head, then took her arm. ‘We’re right outside Logie’s; let’s go in.’

  For tea? As though this was just an ordinary meeting? Allowing him to lead her through the swing doors of the well-known store, Rosa could scarcely take in what was happening. That she was back with Jack as she’d so often been before, yet with everything seeming so different, so dream-like. Thank God he would be able to tell her what had happened to him and how he was managing after what must have seemed to him to be the worst blow to hit him in the world.

  Oddly enough, as they ordered tea and scones at a table in the tearoom where they’d so often met before, Jack almost echoed her own thoughts.

  ‘The worst thing I could have imagined was what happened to me,’ he told her. ‘Apart from losing my sight, which thank God I still have, to lose my right arm was the worst punishment, something I couldn’t bear to accept – even though thousands of fellows have had much worse things happen to them.’

  ‘I can’t think what it must have been like for you,’ Rosa murmured as she poured the tea the waitress had brought and tried not to watch as Jack clumsily used his left hand to accept his cup. Passing him scones, she wondered if she should offer to butter one for him, but knew he wouldn’t accept, and in fact he didn’t take a scone at all.

  ‘My favourites,’ he muttered. ‘When I used to care about such things. What the hell does it matter what you eat? Nothing matters to me now if I can’t paint.’

  ‘You still have your left hand,’ she ventured, at which he frowned and shrugged.

  ‘And when did you ever see me using a paintbrush in my left hand?’

  ‘But you could try it, Jack. You’d get used to it. I mean, isn’t it the brain that controls these things? I’m sure I read that somewhere.’

  ‘Aren’t you the knowledgeable one!’ he exclaimed, at which she flushed, making him shake his head and reach across to take her hand.

  ‘Sorry, Rosa, sorry. You see what’s happened to me? I’m not worth bothering about. Something hits me and it seems I can’t take it. God, when I think what’s happened to some of the men I knew, I am ashamed. Forgive me, Rosa. I want to be as I used to be but words keep coming that are wrong and I end up just feeling sorry for myself—’

  ‘You’re not to blame!’ cried Rosa. ‘You’ve a right to mind what’s happened to you. But tell me about it, Jack – maybe it would help to talk about it.’

  ‘There’s not much to say. I came out of a trench, a sniper fired, he hit my arm, the wound festered and – well, I lost the arm. Was sent home, invalided out of the army – and have been brooding ever since.’

  With a sudden, quick reminder of the old Jack, he smiled at Rosa, drank some tea and said he thought he might have a scone after all.

  ‘You were right, Rosa,’ he said softly as she took a chance and buttered and passed one to him. ‘It helps to talk. Especially to someone as sympathetic as you. I haven’t let you say one word about yourself, so tell me how you are and what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘I’m well, just doing my usual jobs. But I have just lately been up to Carron to see my father, who’s not well. He and my stepmother would like to see me move back to be near them, but I don’t want to leave Edinburgh.’

  His expression bleak, Jack nodded as he drank his tea. ‘Memories?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Memories. Yes.’

  ‘Of course, you think of Daniel.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Only to be expected.’ Jack raised his left hand to summon the waitress. ‘I’ll get the bill, Rosa, and walk you home.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack, but I’ve some shopping to do.’

  Rosa said no more until the bill was paid and they were once more in Princes Street, when she turned to Jack and told him how much it meant to her to meet him again, how much he would be in her thoughts.

  ‘I suppose,’ she finished hesitantly, ‘I couldn’t come to see you at home, could I? Would that be all right?’

  ‘It would be all I’d want, Rosa. Let’s fix a date, shall we?’

  When they’d arranged for her to call one afternoon the following week, Jack smiled a little and told her she wouldn’t find his place too untidy. He had a tough housekeeper who kept him on a short rein, even forcing him to keep his studio tidy, not that he spent much time in his studio any more.

  We’ll see about that, thought Rosa, making no remark to him, only shaking his hand and then leaning up to brush his cheek with her lips. ‘Till next week, Jack.’

  ‘I’ll be counting the days.’

  They parted, Jack to wave that sad left arm before walking fast homewards, she to catch a tram to take her to the shops near her flat. But her thoughts were so agitated, so churning in her brain, she could hardly remember what she needed to buy.

  Sixty-Six

  A tough housekeeper, Jack had said he now employed, who kept him on a tight rein, and when Rosa arrived at his house on the day they’d arranged, she quite understood why he’d described his Miss Ferguson as he had. A particularly thin woman, in her forties, with pale brown hair scraped into a bun, she had piercingly clear grey eyes that seemed, as they swept over Rosa, immediately to find fault, though at the same time managing to be perfectly polite.

  ‘Mrs MacNeil?’ she repeated in cold Scottish tones when Rosa had introduced herself. ‘Please come in. Mr Durno is expecting you.’

  Though why he should be was not to be understood, she seemed to convey as she led Rosa up the familiar stairs to Jack’s studio, her back wonderfully straight, her head held high, reducing Rosa to a bundle of nerves longing only to see Jack and be out of Miss Ferguson’s presence.

  ‘Mrs MacNeil, Mr Durno,’ the housekeeper announced, at which Jack, in a casual sweater and flannels, came forward eagerly to shake Rosa’s hand.

  ‘Rosa, how good to see you! You remembered the way all right?’

  Still holding Rosa’s hands, he turned his head to Miss Ferguson, indicating that she might leave them but perhaps bring them some tea later on?

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ she replied, her manner still so frosty it seemed that winter had come to the studio, but finally she withdrew and Rosa, shivering, freed herself from Jack’s grip and stood gazing round at the studio that was tidier than she’d ever seen it.

  ‘Oh, heavens, Jack,’ she said in a whisper. ‘How do you stand that housekeeper? She puts the fear of God into me!’

  ‘What, Miss Ferguson? That’s her manner – she’s all right, really. Likes everything shipshape, of course, but that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Still, I don’t want to talk about her. I just want to thank you, Rosa, for coming to see me. I feel so much better for seeing you – just like I did after we met the other day.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, Jack, and it’s grand to be here again.’ Rosa paused, then said with emphasis, ‘Where you did your painting. And where you’ll paint again.’

  Jack’s smile faded. He shook his head. ‘You know I won’t do that, Rosa. Don’t you realize painting is over for me? My hand’s gone, my arm’s gone. Gone, Rosa, and that’s that.’

  ‘Your right arm’s gone, Jack. You still have the left one.’

  ‘We spoke of this the other day. I can’t paint with my left hand. I can’t do anything with it, never could.’

  ‘I saw you using it the other day,’ Rosa said quietly. ‘And I think, if you were to practise, you’d find it could be a substitute for the right one.’ She looked around the studio, so strangely empty. ‘Couldn’t you try now? Just to please me?�
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  ‘It’s no use, Rosa. I have tried it – a bit, anyway, and I got so damned frustrated I felt like tearing the canvas apart. You’ve no idea what it’s like to try to do something and fail when you used to have no problems.’

  ‘I know, I know, it’s hard, but if you were just to persevere, Jack, I’m sure you’d get somewhere.’ Rosa smiled cajolingly. ‘Why don’t we find some paper now and you have a go? Or on canvas, maybe? Yes, let’s set up one of your easels, find some paints and begin.’

  ‘I’d much rather get you started painting again, Rosa. You’ve real talent and I have the feeling I’d be good at guiding you—’

  ‘Jack, never mind me. Just let’s see what you can do with your left hand, eh?’

  Heaving a great sigh, Jack one-handedly pinned some paper to one of his easels and took up a pencil, saying he’d just attempt drawing for the moment.

  ‘Not that I’ll be any good, Rosa. I’m just going to let you see for yourself how little I can do.’ He stared at the paper in front of him and shook his head. ‘The thing is what can I draw? There’s scarcely a damn thing in this studio any more.’

  ‘Draw me,’ Rosa suggested. ‘Just my face. I’m right here.’

  ‘So you are. Maybe you could take one of the chairs – sit a little distance away.’

  ‘This do?’ she asked, seating herself on one of the studio chairs and smiling, suddenly feeling nervous.

  ‘That’ll be perfect.’

  For some moments, Jack hesitated, then slowly with his left hand began to draw Rosa’s face, scarcely seeming to breathe as he concentrated hard, while she, also holding her breath, watched him as he watched her and felt a great longing that whatever he was producing would make him happier. Please, God, she prayed, let him have some success this time. Let him have some hope of a future.

  For some time, Jack worked on, the real Rosa apparently forgotten as he tackled her likeness, until she finally cried, ‘How’s it going, then? You seem to be making that left hand work harder than you thought you might.’

  ‘I’m certainly having better luck than before.’ Jack gave her a sudden grin. ‘You’re bringing me good luck, Rosa. I’ve never used that left hand for as long as this before.’

  ‘I’m so glad, Jack, so very glad!’

  ‘I tell you, you’re bringing me good luck.’ Suddenly he downed his pencil and went to her, taking her in his arms and hugging her hard. ‘I never thought I could get so far until you came and I want to thank you. Really, really thank you. I’d given up, you see. I’d lost heart. But now …’

  Still holding her in his arms, he put his thin face close to hers as though he might have kissed her, except that the door to the studio suddenly opened after a single knock and Miss Ferguson appeared before them holding a tray packed with tea things. Teapot, hot water jug, cups and saucers, dainty little sandwiches, a fruit cake already sliced and a plate of Scottish girdle scones. It seemed that the housekeeper could do what the Scots were said to do best, which was to provide the wherewithal for tea.

  She took one look at Jack moving away from Rosa as Rosa moved away from him, then set down her tray on a chair near him and, with a contemptuous look from her wintry grey eyes, left the studio, banging the door behind her. Not a word had she said.

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned Jack. ‘She’s upset, but why the hell should she be? What are we supposed to have done?’

  ‘I expect she doesn’t need an excuse to be upset.’ Rosa sighed as she poured tea from the full teapot Miss Ferguson had left them. ‘Come on, Jack, we might as well have the tea now it’s here.’

  Taking one of the housekeeper’s sandwiches, Jack muttered, ‘As soon as we’ve had this, I’ll take you home before she starts playing up – if that’s what she’s planning.’

  ‘You think we’ll meet her at the door?’

  ‘Oh, she’ll want to see you, I expect. I must admit I’ve been surprised, the way she’s behaved.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ said Rosa.

  Sixty-Seven

  Luckily, when they eventually reached the front door, ready to leave, there was no sign of Miss Ferguson and, like a couple of truants escaping school, they hurried away, Jack insisting on taking Rosa home.

  ‘You really don’t need to, Jack,’ she protested. ‘I know you’re dying to get back to your studio.’

  ‘How little you know me,’ he said with a laugh. ‘And it’s dark already. You think I’d let you go home on your own in the dark?’

  ‘As though I don’t go home in the dark nearly every day!’ she said with a smile.

  Yet she was glad he was with her when she arrived back at her flat, for a telegraph boy had just reached her door.

  ‘Telegram for MacNeil?’ he asked, looking sympathetic.

  ‘Yes, I’m Mrs MacNeil,’ she told him as Jack stood by, looking worried, and with a puzzled look she took the telegram. She’d already had the telegram that had caused her so much grief and dreaded to think what this new one could hold.

  ‘Want to see what it says?’ asked Jack, but she shook her head, saying she would read it herself, and with trembling fingers tore the message open, her eyes quickly running along its few tragic words …

  Regret Greg passed away Tuesday Stop Funeral Saturday if all right with you Stop Be in touch Stop

  ‘Any answer?’ asked the telegraph boy, who had already been given sixpence by Jack.

  ‘No – yes – I don’t know—’

  Rosa, shaking, took the hand that Jack held out for her. ‘Jack, my father’s dead. I must go to the funeral on Saturday, look up trains, let my stepmother know—’

  ‘Right, we’ll send a reply to her via this boy. You’ll want to go tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow – oh, but I can’t believe it, Jack. He’s dead, my da’s dead—’

  ‘You go up to your flat and I’ll give the boy a reply to take for us. What’s the address?’

  In a daze, she gave him Joan’s address, then after Jack had paid for a reply and the boy had cycled off with it, Rosa and Jack, hand in hand, slowly mounted the stairs to Rosa’s flat.

  ‘Of course I’ll go with you,’ said Jack while Rosa took off her hat and coat. ‘There’s no way you can go all that way on your own. I’ll go out now and get the tickets.’

  ‘No, Jack, it won’t do. You didn’t know my father, you don’t know Joan or anyone up there – there’d be no point.’

  ‘I’d be a support, Rosa, which is what you need. There must be some pub or somewhere that’ll put me up.’

  But at her expression, his eager flood of words dried and he sighed and shook his head. ‘You don’t want me to come, Rosa? I thought I’d be a help.’

  ‘It’s good of you, Jack, and I appreciate your offer, but I’d be better on my own, and I know the journey so well I’ll be all right.’ She touched his hand. ‘You could see me off, if you like. I know there’s a train that leaves at eight and I’ll just get my ticket tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No, I’ll get it. I’ll come round here by taxi, which we can keep for the station.’ Jack smiled a little. ‘If you’ll just let me do something.’

  ‘You’re doing plenty, but now – I think …’

  ‘You want to be on your own? Sure you do.’ He quickly kissed her cheek, then went to the door. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then – early.’

  ‘Till tomorrow. Thank you, Jack, for everything.’

  He only smiled and let himself out, while she sank into a chair. She sat there for some time before finally collapsing into tears, not just for her father, but also for her mother and Lorne, for Daniel and even for herself. She was, of all of them, the only one left.

  Sixty-Eight

  Another long journey to Carron, then. But this time, as she again travelled alone, leaving a sad Jack behind, Rosa’s thoughts had to be with Greg, who had never meant so much to her as he had in recent years. Had her mother lived, Rosa knew they would have been very close in the sort of way she would never have expected to be with Greg, but in h
is last illness she liked to think they’d shared a new affinity. After all, with her mother gone and Lorne, too, there’d been just the two of them left from the original family, herself and Greg. And now there was just herself, travelling again to Carron, to pay her last respects as his chief mourner after his wife, who would need all of Rosa’s sympathy now that she was alone.

  At least, neither Joan nor Rosa could feel alone at Greg’s funeral, for the whole village turned out for him, along with many of his old customers from afar and even Mrs Thain, Greg having worked for the family from the big house, though it was not expected that Mr Thain would appear, and he did not. Rumour had it that he was still not over the death of Rory, perhaps never would be, and had become quite a recluse, as much a victim of the war as any who had suffered in a conventional way.

  Joan, now Greg’s widow, had been almost pathetically grateful to have Rosa with her, not only to share her sorrow but to help arrange the funeral and the reception afterwards that was held in the village hall, although of course there were plenty who would help there.

  ‘It’s been so grand having you here, Rosa,’ Joan told her when they were at home, the funeral over, their tears over too, at least for the time being. ‘I was so dreading this day, I don’t mind telling you, saying goodbye to Greg, seeing him, you know, buried.’ Joan sniffed a little. ‘Going where I could not follow. That’s what you feel at funerals, eh? That the person you loved has left you for ever?’

  ‘No, Joan!’ Rosa cried. ‘That’s not true! Their body’s gone but we can still remember the way they were as a person. Don’t you feel that, Joan? Oh, you must!’

  ‘Maybe.’ Joan sighed, putting her handkerchief to her eyes and rising to move the kettle on the stove so that they might make some tea. ‘I don’t know what I feel yet, I suppose. Except that I’m alone.’