No more was said. Mamie was considering ways and means. She would go over to Boscath tomorrow and take Lizzie. She and Lizzie together could at least make a start. It would mean that Jock would have to have a cold meal in the middle of the day, for if she took Lizzie there would be nobody to cook for him … but Jock would not mind. There was a piece of cold beef, he could have a salad, his coffee could be left in a thermos flask.
Jock watched her. He knew exactly what Mamie was thinking; he usually knew. She’ll wear herself out, I’ll need to do something, thought Jock.
Early the following morning Mamie and Lizzie set off to Boscath. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining in a cloudless sky, the hills were peaceful. As they walked down the gently sloping track to the ford Mamie was struck afresh with the beauty of her surroundings. The river leapt and sparkled and swirled between black rocks, but at the ford it broadened into a quiet pool with a brown gravel bottom and today the water was scarcely ankle deep. Most people called it Mureth Ford but the ford had been there long before Mureth; it had been used by Roman legions (that was certain, for pieces of Roman pottery had been found buried in the shingle); it had probably been used by Celtic tribes before the Roman occupation.
Mamie removed her shoes and waded in. The water was cold but after the first shock it was rather enjoyable. The fine rounded pebbles squelched between her toes. Looking down she saw her pink toes and the brown gravel, she felt the tug of the bright water as it swirled round her ankles.
Lizzie had donned Wellington boots for the passage but in spite of this she hesitated upon the brink for Lizzie was a townswoman at heart. She had come to Mureth during the war as an evacuee from Glasgow and although she had been at Mureth ever since she had never got used to country ways. Lizzie had two children: Duggie who had been evacuated with her from the horrors of the Clydeside blitz and Greta who had been born soon after her arrival. The children had grown up at Mureth and went in to Drumburly school daily in the school bus.
Mamie could not help smiling when she looked round and saw Lizzie standing upon the bank of the river. She looked so out of place. The wide rolling hills, the sparkling water — these were not the right setting for Lizzie Smith. She would have looked, and probably felt, more at home in Sauchiehall Street amongst the Glasgow crowds. Poor dear, I wonder why she has stayed, thought Mamie (not for the first time by any means). I suppose she must like us. Or perhaps it’s because of the children.
“It’s quite shallow,” said Mamie encouragingly. “There’s scarcely any current. Take my hand.”
Lizzie’s hand was trembling as she allowed herself to be piloted across.
“We’ll get a cart to bring us back,” said Mamie. “I never thought — I mean I didn’t know you were frightened.”
“I’m not,” replied Lizzie, who had her pride. “It’s just that I’m not wanting to get my skirt wet.”
When at last they reached the little house and began to look about them and to decide upon a plan of action Mamie felt her heart sink. It was worse than she had thought, the task of cleaning it was Herculean, but Lizzie seemed undaunted at the prospect.
Lizzie took off her coat and donned an overall. “I’ll light the boiler,” she announced. “I’ll need hot water to scrub the floors.”
“It will take us weeks,” said Mamie hopelessly.
“You’ll not scrub,” declared Lizzie.
“Of course I shall!”
“Not the floors. I’ll do the floors myself and then I’ll know they’re properly done. You can get on with unpacking the china.”
It was so like Lizzie to do a kind action ungraciously that Mamie almost smiled (she certainly would have smiled in normal circumstances), but smiles were out of the question today, she felt more like tears.
Lizzie disappeared into the kitchen and Mamie went upstairs and looked about her. The main bedroom was quite a good size, it faced west, looking across the river to Mureth. Rhoda had chosen pale turquoise paper for the walls and pale grey paint for the woodwork. It was unusual, of course, but Rhoda was an unusual person. Mamie decided it was a success. The furniture had been shoved in anyhow; the bed leant against the fireplace, the cupboard was in the middle of the room, the roll of carpet was standing in the corner. Everything was filthy, including the window.
I ought to do something, thought Mamie hopelessly. I ought to begin to do something. The question is what? She went to the window and looked out. There was Mureth, across the river, and there was the ford … and there was a farm cart coming up the track from the ford, a farm cart with four women in it!
For a moment Mamie did not understand and then, quite suddenly, she realised who they were and why they were coming. The female population of Mureth cottages was on its way to the rescue. It was almost too good to be true! She rubbed her eyes and looked again. Yes, it was a real cart with real women in it. She could see Mrs. Wilson, the wife of the undershepherd; Mrs. Couper the wife of the ploughman; Mrs. Bell, the wife of the dairyman and, last but by no means least, Mrs. Dunne, whose husband, Willy Dunne, was Jock’s right-hand man. Mamie waved to them joyfully. No watchman in a beleaguered city could have been more incredulously thrilled and delighted to see the approach of a relieving army than was Mamie as she beheld the approach of the farm cart, driven by Joseph Couper. Four women! Four able-bodied recruits!
This was Jock’s doing of course; it was the sort of thing Jock enjoyed doing and, now that she thought of it, she remembered that Jock had been somewhat mysterious this morning at breakfast. She had caught him smiling to himself in a sphinx-like manner over his bacon and eggs and when she had asked to be allowed to share the joke he had replied, “I’ll tell you the joke at dinner time, or maybe you’ll tell me,” and had refused to say any more. Yes, it was Jock’s doing, but how had he managed it? The women had husbands and children to feed and houses to look after. Mamie had never thought of asking them to come and help her.
She ran downstairs and met them at the door. “How kind of you!” she cried. “Goodness, I’m glad to see you!”
“Mr. Johnstone said you were needing help,” explained Mrs. Bell.
“He just mentioned it,” said Mrs. Couper.
“It would be a real pity if the house wasn’t ready for Mr. James,” added Mrs. Wilson.
“But the children!” cried Mamie.
“They’ll be fine,” Mrs. Couper assured her. “I kept Alice off school and Grandfer will be there. The wee Wilsons are spending the day with our ones.”
“Daisy will look in and see to them,” added Mrs. Bell.
Mrs. Dunne said nothing. She had no children; she had prepared a cold meal for her husband and left her cottage with an easy mind.
“Well, I do think it’s kind,” declared Mamie, who realised the amount of organisation which had been necessary. Every one of them must have been up at dawn preparing food and making arrangements for her family in her absence.
The recruits had come armed with pails and scrubbing brushes — all except Mrs. Dunne who by reason of her superior position had armed herself with polishing materials instead. Mamie noticed this at once and laid her plans accordingly. She knew it was not going to be easy for although the denizens of Mureth cottages lived next door to one another they were not always friends. One day they would be as thick as thieves and the next, for some obscure reason, they would be scarcely upon speaking terms. Mamie regretted this tendency and she was all the more pleased and surprised to discover there had been so much co-operation amongst them and to note that for today at least all feuds seemed to have been forgotten. Even Mrs. Dunne who was usually at the bottom of any trouble in the cottages seemed amiably inclined.
“It seemed so hopeless that I didn’t know where to begin,” said Mamie as she led them into the hall.
“We’ll sweep the floors and then scrub them,” said Mrs. Couper cheerfully.
“Starting at the top,” added Mrs. Bell.
“It’ll not take long with four of us at it,” declared Mrs. Wilson as
she took off her coat.
They got down to it without more ado and soon the little house was full of the sound of scrubbing, of chinking pails and chattering voices. They were all happy. They were doing a kind deed and incidentally they were enjoying themselves, for it was a change from the dull routine of their daily work. They had come because they were fond of James and because all the world loves a newly married couple. Perhaps they had been prompted by a slight feeling of inquisitive interest in the newly decorated house and by an unwillingness to be left out of the picture (if Mrs. Bell were going to Boscath Mrs. Couper would not stay at home), but Mamie preferred to think it was all due to their innate goodness of heart and to the fact that they liked James.
Lizzie’s face was the only glum one — and how odd that was! How odd that Lizzie should resent the coming of help! One would have thought that Lizzie’s face would shine with pleasure to see the work being accomplished so easily. Lizzie had been willing to scrub every inch of the house with her own hands. Mamie could only suppose that Lizzie was jealous.
In some ways the day was even more wearing than Mamie had expected for instead of labouring herself she was now an organiser of other people’s labour, directing, advising, smoothing out difficulties and keeping an eye upon everybody at once. She had to propitiate Lizzie, asking her opinion upon this and that, insinuating in a tactful manner that Lizzie was her lieutenant in the battle for cleanliness and order which was being waged at Boscath Farm. The management of Mrs. Dunne required even more tact for Mrs. Dunne might wreck everything if she became annoyed or offended.
“Perhaps you could help me to unpack the china,” suggested Mamie. Mrs. Dunne graciously agreed.
3
JAMES AND Rhoda were spending a few days in London on their way home; they had intended to travel north on Friday, but on Thursday morning they suddenly changed their plan. It was breakfast time and the newly married couple were sitting at a small table in a London hotel endeavouring to satisfy their healthy appetites with the food provided for them. James had chosen porridge and had been offered a plate of curious grey pudding, flavoured with saccharine, he had turned from it in disgust and asked for a kipper. Rhoda, more used to London breakfasts or perhaps less optimistically inclined, had gone for cornflakes and fruit.
“Breakfast used to be so nice,” said James sadly.
“I know,” agreed Rhoda in sympathetic tones. “I like a decent breakfast myself but lots of people eat nothing for breakfast so I suppose hotels don’t think it’s worth bothering.”
“They make you pay for it,” James pointed out. “If you have to pay for breakfast there ought to be something to eat. There’s nothing on this kipper at all.”
“Let’s fly,” suggested Rhoda.
“Fly?”
Rhoda nodded. “We could fly to Renfrew; we could get a train to Drumburly; we could be in our own house tonight!”
“Our own house!” cried James, looking at his wife with adoring eyes. “Oh Rhoda! But it won’t be ready!”
“Who cares? I mean we could light a fire and make up a bed, couldn’t we? How do you like the idea?”
James liked it immensely not only because he was a countryman at heart and detested the crowds and noise and bustle of London but also because he was longing to have Rhoda all to himself in their very own house with nobody to bother them.
Rhoda was aware of this. She had only been married to James for a month but she knew a good deal about him. She had known James when they were children and that helped, for James the man had developed quite naturally from James the little boy who had been her playmate. Even in those far-off days Rhoda had loved him; they had got into all sorts of scrapes together and had shared experiences, grave and gay. Then James had gone to Malaya and Rhoda had taken up painting in a big way so they had drifted apart. They had drifted so far apart that Rhoda had almost lost James, not because James had ceased to love her but because Rhoda had imagined — most foolishly as she now perceived — that painting was a more important career than marriage. If it had not been for James’s aunt, Mamie Johnstone, Rhoda would most certainly have lost James. Rhoda shivered at the horrible thought.
“You’re cold, darling!” exclaimed her husband.
“Cold! How could I be cold in this stuffy room?”
“Perhaps there’s a draught.”
“What nonsense,” smiled Rhoda.
“It isn’t nonsense,” declared James earnestly. “The least draught might easily give you a chill. You don’t wear enough warm clothes.” He knew this quite definitely of course. For the last four weeks James had had the privilege of seeing his wife undress, of observing the diaphanous garments which were hidden from the rest of the world. There was no warmth in any of them — the whole of Rhoda’s underwear could not have weighed more than half a pound — no wonder James was terrified of her getting a chill.
“Don’t be silly,” Rhoda said. “People never wear flannel petticoats nowadays. If you’ve finished picking at that piece of shoe leather we’ll go and see if we can get seats on a plane.”
*
It was late when James and Rhoda arrived at Boscath Farm. They had flown to Renfrew, done some necessary shopping in Glasgow and having missed the last train to Drumburly had gone to a garage and engaged a car to drive them home. It was an expensive form of transport but Rhoda pointed out that it would cost no more than staying the night in a Glasgow hotel and, although James had a feeling that it would, he did not go into the financial aspect of the matter very thoroughly. He wanted to get home; Rhoda wanted to get home; the young man at the garage was ready and willing to take them.
The car went well on the smooth high-road to Drumburly but when they had passed the bridge and turned onto the road to Boscath Farm they were obliged to slow down and proceed at a snail’s crawl. Auld Hornie had been at his tricks again.
“Is this right?” enquired the young man from the Glasgow garage in anxious tones.
James assured him that it was.
“It’s not very good for my springs.”
“No,” agreed James. “I’m sorry. It’s an awful road.”
“It’s a daft road,” declared the young man. “Look at the holes! Look at the turns! Jings, look at the bog!”
“It’s better further on,” said James, hoping devoutly that his optimism was justified and that Auld Hornie had not any further tricks in store.
“It could hardly be wurrse,” replied the young man sourly.
They bumped and slithered and twisted and turned but fortunately the young man was a careful driver and brought them to their destination without mishap. James paid him generously and they stood at their gate and watched him drive away. The lights receded into the twilit gloom and disappeared.
Now that they had reached their journey’s end the impatience which had urged them forward and which had made the whole day a nightmare of haste and confusion vanished away. You could not feel impatient here for time did not matter. Clocks were an invention made for cities not for the everlasting hills. It was very quiet, there was not a breath of wind, the only sound was the far-off murmur of the river. The sky was still bright with the reflection of the vanished day but the earth was dark and shadowy; the hills were dark, lying like sleeping monsters, their rounded backs outlined against the pale lemon and palest turquoise of the heavens.
“Peaceful,” whispered Rhoda.
“Isn’t it?” agreed James. “I feel as if there was only you and me in all the world.”
She slipped her hand through his arm.
“I love this place,” said James. “Boscath is part of Mureth, and to me Mureth is perfect — and you’re perfect. Nobody has ever been so lucky before.”
“I come second of course.”
“You know that’s not true. I would have given up all idea of farming if you had wanted me to. It was only when you said ‘No’ that I came to Mureth to learn farming with Uncle Jock.”
“And then I followed you here and threw myself at your head!
”
“And I caught you,” agreed James. “I wasn’t wicket keeper in the first eleven at Stowe for nothing. I caught you and I’m never going to let you go. You’re a farmer’s wife, Rhoda.”
“Your wife,” she said, squeezing his arm. “It still sounds funny. I haven’t got used to it yet. First of all it’s so amazing to have a husband and secondly it’s so absolutely staggering to be a wife. I daresay it sounds as if it were the same thing but it’s two absolutely distinct things to me.”
“Yes,” said James doubtfully. “Well, I don’t know. You couldn’t have a husband without being a wife.”
“And then there’s that woman,” continued Rhoda chuckling. “That mysterious person who seems to haunt me. She’s always cropping up at unexpected moments.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, I’ve never seen her of course, but —”
“Who?” asked James, mystified.
“Mrs. James Dering Johnstone, of course.”
“Oh, of course.”
“People say, Mrs. Dering Johnstone, and I look round to see where she is.”
James could sympathise with Rhoda’s feelings for he too had changed his name, or at least he had taken the name of Johnstone in addition to his own. He had done so because Jock and Mamie, having no children, had made James their heir.
“It’s a bit of a mouthful,” James said. “And it’s a frightful nuisance to sign, but I expect we shall get used to it in time.”
“No doubt we shall,” agreed Rhoda cheerfully.
Having settled this, they turned and looked at their house. There it stood, a small solid building with a low roof fitting tightly upon its walls. It looked absolutely empty and deserted but that did not worry them for they had known it would be empty.
“Let’s go in,” said Rhoda. “It’s getting cold and I’m famished. We can light the fire and make coffee and open that tin of tongue we got in Glasgow. It’s just as well I remembered we should need food. Perhaps I’m going to be quite a good wife — a sensible, house-keeping farmer’s wife. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Shoulder the Sky (Drumberley Book 3) Page 2