Bury Her Deep

by Catriona McPherson

  I opened the front door of the manse moments later to let myself out – all hands appeared to be on deck in the kitchen safeguarding the clarity of the jelly – and was confronted by a face. I stepped back sharply and then stayed back, for this face was not only unexpected but, even after a second and a third look at it, extremely unnerving. It was a thin, white face, indifferently shaved, and boasting a pair of narrow eyes and a lantern jaw, grimly set under pursed lips. It sat above a high-buttoned and rather rusty black suit and below an equally rusty black bowler hat worn so far down on the bony skull beneath it that it must surely have been crammed on in a moment of violent rage, in lieu, perhaps, of throwing something through a window.

  The jaw unclenched.

  ‘I’m here tae see the meenister,’ said an accusing voice. ‘I’ve something to say.’

  With that the man stalked past me, rather insultingly careful to make sure his garments brushed against none of mine, and made for the study. He clearly knew Mr Tait’s habits, and was sure where to find him.

  I hesitated before following; after all, parishioners must visit all the time – that must be amongst the heaviest of a priest’s burdens – and so this individual could be here about anything at all, but surely such an air of offended outrage could not spring from an everyday matter and it was not too fanciful to imagine that his business with Mr Tait might also be mine. Perhaps, although he did not look like a farmer in his black suit, this was Mr Hemingborough come with information. Perhaps – as I had the thought I broke into a trot – he had come with a confession. I sidled into the study just in time to see Mr Tait lay down his book and fold away his spectacles with a patient air, although with his customary sunny expression somewhat dimmed.

  ‘And whae’s this?’ said the man, turning to look at me from the perch he had taken up in a chair opposite the desk.

  ‘This is Mr Black, Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Tait, very properly ignoring the query and presenting the man to me. ‘One of my parishioners. This is Mrs Gilver, from Gilverton in Perthshire, Dick, she’s my guest here.’ He did not carry on and say that he would thank Dick Black to keep a civil tongue in his head, but I understood it and gave him a grateful smile.

  ‘Aye, I ken all about you,’ said Mr Black. ‘You’d be as well to hear this too.’

  Thus given permission to stay, I subsided meekly into a chair and waited.

  ‘I tried again last nicht, Mr Tait,’ said Mr Black. ‘While those Jezebels were carousing and cavorting in that schoolhouse, I tried again and again I failed. You have to take a stand, now, before the very pit opens under our feet and swallows us all.’

  ‘Mr Black is no fan of the Rural, Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Tait with breathtaking understatement. ‘He always drops in the day after the meetings. It’s getting to be quite a tradition.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Black,’ I said, ‘there was no cavorting and carousing last evening. I was there myself.’

  ‘I ken you were,’ he said. ‘I heard you. The lot of you . . . chanting!’

  ‘We did recite a little poetry,’ I said. ‘Did we disturb you? I shouldn’t have thought it was loud enough to carry to another house.’ Mr Tait was sitting back, enormously entertained it appeared to me.

  ‘I was ootside in the lane,’ said Mr Black. ‘I heard it as plain as day. Chanting.’

  ‘You were outside?’ I said, my interest aroused.

  ‘On my mission,’ he announced, startlingly. ‘As how I wouldna have to if them as should would.’ With that he turned away from me and addressed Mr Tait once more. ‘I went as far as the Frasers’ last nicht. I thocht he’d be sure to give me his ear what with his wife seein’ the licht, and him stayin’ at his own fireside since she did, even if he was as bad as the rest for wanderin’ beforetimes. And he should ken to listen to his elders and betters, but do you know what he said to me?’

  ‘I cannot imagine,’ said Mr Tait.

  ‘He said, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone.”’

  ‘Well, Dick,’ said Mr Tait, ‘you can hardly expect me to disagree with that.’

  ‘Not one sorry soul did I bring back to the richt way o’ thinkin’ last nicht,’ Mr Black went on. ‘For most o’ them were nowhere to be found, Mr Tait. The men as bad as their wives, everybody oot in the nicht, givin’ the devil an easy job tae find them.’ Mr Tait was trying to interrupt the flow, but Mr Black spoke all the louder and drowned him out. ‘Right roond the lanes and not a soul could I raise,’ he said. ‘Logan McAdam, Drew Torrance, Jim Hemingborough, Bob—’

  ‘It’s no crime, Dick,’ said Mr Tait. ‘When the cat’s away, you know.’

  ‘All the husbands were out?’ I said.

  ‘Aye, a corpse rots fae the heid doon,’ said Mr Black. ‘What can we expect o’ a pack o’ women if their men are lost to sin?’

  ‘Come now,’ said Mr Tait, hoisting a smile out of his seemingly bottomless store of goodwill. ‘Lost to sin? Lost, perhaps, to a quiet game of cards or a glass of ale but no more.’

  This, I concluded, was pure mischief and right enough Mr Black’s white face began to change to a mottled purple and he struggled with himself in silence for quite some time before he spoke again.

  ‘And what can we expect fae the common fowk when their meenister and their masters see Satan comin’ and jist wink at him?’

  ‘What masters are these?’ said Mr Tait.

  ‘They feckless eejits up by Luck Hoose,’ said Mr Black. ‘Sodom and Gomorrah on our very doorstep, Mr Tait. I saw it with my ain eyes last nicht.’

  ‘You went up to Luck House?’ said Mr Tait. ‘You should know better than that, Dick. You’ve overstepped yourself there.’

  ‘Steeped in it,’ said Mr Black. ‘Soaked in whisky, the pair o’ them. I wasted my time even tryin’. And I see I’m wastin’ more of it here today.’ He stood up and glared down at Mr Tait.

  ‘You are that, Dick,’ said the Reverend. ‘That you are.’

  Cramming his bowler back onto his head as tightly as before, Dick Black stalked from the room without a goodbye and without so much as a glance in my direction.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to witness that, Mrs Gilver,’ said Mr Tait, when he had gone. ‘Our Bible tells us that “whom the Lord loveth He correcteth” but He hasn’t worked His way round to Dick Black yet as far as I can see.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It was rather useful. I’ve learned – if Mr Black can be believed – that the Howie brothers are in the clear, as is Mr Fraser, although I suppose we knew that, since Mrs Fraser has “seen the licht” and given up the meetings and her husband could hardly be out without her knowing. But, it seems, other husbands have no alibis for yesterday evening and countless other evenings too. And of course, I’ve learned that Mr Black himself is wont to prowl around on Rural nights.’

  ‘Oh come! Mrs Gilver!’ said Mr Tait.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I know he’s one of your flock but you can’t deny that he’s . . . peculiar enough.’

  ‘He’s not peculiar at all,’ said Mr Tait. ‘He’s all too common, him and the likes of him. And anyway, Dick Black was born in Luckenlaw and lived here all his days. If he was the stranger, he wouldn’t be a stranger, would he?’

  I had to admit that there was a great deal of sense in this, but still I determined to mention his name to the victims.

  To the victims, I now turned my thoughts once more. I said goodbye and, with no more encounters on my way, I left the village and strode out along the farm lane, a pad of writing paper and a pencil clutched in my hand, all practicality and purpose, all thoughts of secret chambers and snaky strangers far from my mind. The going was not nearly as dirty as Lorna had feared and the view was, if anything, better: a long sweep of flat fields all the way to the coast where the Forth lay glinting like a bolt of grey silk held in place by the great stud of the Bass Rock. Or was that the Isle of May I could see? Before I had decided I found myself past the Hemingboroughs’ place and turning away from the sea
, around the bottom of the hill, to Easter Luckenlaw Farm beyond.

  It was an agreeable spot. The square, grey farmhouse faced to the south with its long garden laid out before it and the yard and buildings, as was usual, tucked away behind out of sight. In the sunshine this afternoon, the drying green and vegetable patch inside the garden wall were a feast of cheerful ordinariness to my eyes and I thought I recognised from the Rural meeting of the evening before the woman who was busy at the washing-line, pressing the clothes against her lips to see if they were drying. I stopped and watched her for a while, hoping for her to notice me and let me strike up conversation in an unobtrusive way, but she was intent on her task, working her way along, smoothing, stretching and repegging the succession of petticoats, winter camisoles and knickers, woollen stockings and jerseys, all in strict order on the line. When she was finished, she turned to seize a stretching pole and spotted me at last. She nodded politely.

  ‘I hope the wind picks up for you,’ I said.

  ‘I doubt it will,’ she called back. ‘And the sun’ll be ahint the law soon enough.’ She gestured and following her pointing finger I could see she was right. The outline of the hill was already dazzling a little and it would not be long before the afternoon, here at least, was over.

  ‘I was at Mrs Hemingborough’s this morning,’ I called to her. ‘She has a contraption in her kitchen and she was ironing already.’

  ‘Aye well, she’s the lucky one,’ Mrs Palmer said, coming down the garden. She was a red-complexioned woman in her thirties, plain and rather severe in her dark dress and apron with her hair pinned tightly off her face, but there was a sturdy charm about the way she strode towards me and her face was frank and friendly-seeming. ‘Jimmy cannot stand wet cloots about his ears in his kitchen,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it Thursday before it’s all pressed and away again wintertimes. But there, it’s best out here getting a blow about, isn’t it?’ We both looked at the washing, hanging straight down with not a wisp of a breeze to move it, and laughed.

  ‘It’s Mrs Gilver, is it not?’ Mrs Palmer said. ‘You’re a friend of the Howies?’

  ‘No!’ I blurted out, far too decisively for politeness. ‘A friend of the Taits.’ Mrs Palmer smiled broadly at me.

  ‘And so what can I do for you?’ she said, suggesting that any friend of the Taits was a friend of hers.

  ‘Well, yes, you can help me actually, as a matter of fact,’ I said, and cleared my throat. I was rather proud of my little plan and had further refined it while walking here, but as always when the moment came my heart was in my mouth. ‘As you know, I’m talking at the Rural next month on household budgets and rather than just spout on I thought it would be a splendid idea to find out what would be most useful to you. I mean, not just to you, you understand, but to everyone.’

  Mrs Palmer was blinking at me, her mind clearly an absolute blank as I am sure mine would have been if someone had asked the same of me.

  ‘I don’t mean to put you on the spot,’ I assured her. ‘The idea was to come back in a few days perhaps and see what you’ve come up with. If anything. If you care to.’ I began, as I so often do, to babble. ‘I mean to say, things have been very different recently for all of us. Why even the ladies at Luckenlaw House were saying as much this morning. And farming, gosh. Farming is never the most . . . My husband farms and so I know.’

  ‘Well, as to the farm,’ said Mrs Palmer, ‘we’ve been lucky. I tell Jimmy that, time and again. There’s no need to go fussing and fretting. We’re fine as we are.’ I thought I could discern a kindred spirit here, for clearly ‘Jimmy’ was another Hugh and how I wished I could prevail upon him to stop ‘fussing and fretting’ about his farms.

  ‘And we should count wur blessings,’ Mrs Palmer went on. ‘The Hemingboroughs have had a terrible time with the blight down at Hinter Luck these last few years and I cannot begin to tell you the troubles over at the McAdams’. Some long fancy name for it, but fifty good cows dead and gone for dog meat was the upshot. And then there’s the kind of troubles, there’s just no name for.’ On that cryptic note she stopped at last, with a shudder.

  ‘It was more the household side of things really,’ I said hastily. That was bad enough, but I could not have worked sick cattle and blight into my address if my life depended on doing so.

  ‘If anything,’ Mrs Palmer said, ‘off the top of my head . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ I prompted, with real eagerness. For not only was this exercise in reconnaissance my cover story but also there was, actually, the talk. I had a month, it was true, but already every time I let my imagination stray towards it my mouth went dry.

  ‘I mean to say if it was my man you were asking . . .’ said Mrs Palmer, ‘but I’m not sure if that’s the kind of thing you mean . . .’

  ‘I’m open to any ideas at all,’ I assured her.

  ‘Well, what I really wish I knew more about,’ she said, ‘is insurance.’

  ‘Insurance?’

  ‘Jimmy’s forever pestering me about it. I say to him we should trust to Providence, but then I see folk all about struggling away, like you said, Mrs Gilver, and I just wonder. Our well went dry, you know. A few years ago now but it was a terrible thing when it happened. It was summertime and there was beasts in the fields to be watered and crops in the ground and we’d to give a fortune over to the spaeman to find us another one, not to mention Jimmy and the men taking so much time off to howk it we had to hire an extra man to do the farm work. Then blow me if the same thing didn’t happen again with the new well that winter. Or at least, it went sour. If we couldn’t have collected the rainwater we’d never have got through. So what I would really like to know is if there’s insurance for that? Water insurance. Would you know anything about that? For trouble aye comes in threes and the next time could break us.’

  ‘Water insurance?’ I echoed limply.

  ‘All insurance really, I suppose,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘Jimmy’s just as keen on life insurance, if you would credit it, but there I have put my foot down, for it’s just not right. Mind you, goodness only knows how we would manage if anything happened to him, with all my girls still at the school. And I do worry about the house after that fire over by Wester Luck. You won’t have heard about that, Mrs Gilver, not belonging Luckenlaw, but it was a dreadful thing. The house was left a shell and half the buildings too, and I worry, even though I know it’s wicked of me.’ She stopped at long, long last and gave me a brave smile that I managed to meet with some sort of sickly stretching of my own lips.

  ‘That’s my Jimmy’s question for you,’ she said. ‘Does it make sense to spend the money every month or not? And my question would be’ – she broke off and looked searchingly at me for a moment – ‘is it right? Should we even try to outwit our fate thon way?’

  ‘I’ll – I’ll do my very best to answer you,’ I said, and I think she believed me. In truth, I was reeling. ‘What I can say right now, is that it’s not wicked of you to worry about it. Far from it – it’s natural.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘We should maybe just take trouble when it comes and let it run its course. What’s for us will never go by us, especially if we’ve brought it upon ourselves, mind.’

  Suddenly, I was sure I knew what she meant but I hesitated about how to broach it. ‘Mr Tait told me about the troubles,’ I started gently. ‘But I have to admit to feeling a little sceptical. I don’t quite see how unlocking a chamber could cause blight. Or start a fire either.’

  ‘Well, of course it couldn’t,’ said Mrs Palmer, looking at me as if I had sprouted feathers. ‘Did Mr Tait tell you that?’

  I shook my head and, chastened, tried to marshal some of my departed dignity.

  ‘Now Mrs Palmer, is there anyone else about the place I should speak to? In the spirit of the Rural I want to be sure and talk to everyone, not just the lady of the house.’

  ‘No, just me,’ she said. ‘My daughters are still girls, a long way from a woman’s cares, I’m glad to say.’
>
  ‘Really?’ I persisted. ‘I’m sure Lorna Tait mentioned a dairy maid when I said I was coming round here. Elspeth, was it?’

  At this, Mrs Palmer’s expression grew rather fixed and she put her head back and looked at me from under her lids.

  ‘Elspeth is our dairy maid,’ she said, ‘but she’s not in the Rural. She went a couple of times but she didn’t stick at it.’

  ‘How strange,’ I said, affecting innocence and wondering whether Mrs Palmer would tell me the reason for Elspeth’s departure. She did not. ‘It was all tremendous fun last night. I think,’ I went on, ‘I think I’ll just pop in and have a word with her anyway, Mrs Palmer. One never knows, perhaps if I ask her what she would like to hear included in my talk next month, I might be able to entice her back.’ I began to make my way to the mouth of the drive which ran up the side of the garden and disappeared around to the yard. I was pretty sure I should be able to find the dairy without much trouble: farmyards are much the same throughout the land.

  ‘But Elspeth doesn’t run a household,’ Mrs Palmer persisted, trotting up the garden on the other side of the wall from me. ‘She doesn’t need to know about budgets.’

  ‘She’ll have to learn one day,’ I said, still marching very purposefully onwards, ‘if she marries and gets a house of her own, and I think it will be most interesting to hear what concerns her most about the prospect, don’t you?’ At that moment we reached the spot where the garden wall turned the corner and joined to the side of the house, the usual fierce separation of the agricultural from the domestic realm which was designed, I suppose, to keep the sheep out of the flowerbeds but which served an equally useful purpose to me now. Short of clambering over to join me in the lane, Mrs Palmer had no choice but to rush into the house at the front and out again at the back in an attempt to meet me.

  I was too quick for her. I sped around the corner into the yard, hopping and leaping over the inevitable deposits underfoot, and made a beeline for the whitewashed building with fly-mesh over the windows and ventilation flaps high up in the walls, which I surmised must be the dairy house. I was right and, slipping inside, I found myself in a dim, cool room where a girl in a capacious apron and with a cap pinned over her hair stood on a slatted board bending intently over an enormous bowl. She glanced over her shoulder on hearing me then, slightly surprised I expect to find me a stranger, she put down the ladle she was holding and turned around wiping her hands.