A Last Goodbye

by Dee Yates

  ‘What’s the matter? Whatever’s happened?’

  He crossed the kitchen, took hold of her arm and dragged her across the floor to the bedroom, where he flung her onto the bed.

  ‘That’s the matter! That!’ With a shaking hand, he indicated the bed. Catching hold of her, he hauled her upwards with one hand and delivered the punch that had been intended for the prisoner who had apprehended him. She fell back on the covers and tried to claw her way out of his reach, but he took hold of her and dragged her off the bed. She collapsed on the floor.

  ‘You whore! You filthy stinking lying whore!’ He kicked her savagely. ‘How could you humiliate me like that as soon as my back is turned… and with one of them? In my bed!’ He kicked her again. She groaned and tried to reply, but he gave her no opportunity. Aiming a third kick at her ribs, he wheeled round and stumbled to the door. Panting, he paused and stared at her as she lay curled up and unmoving. Then the door slammed and he was gone.

  *

  For several minutes Ellen remained motionless. Her body hurt too much to move, but her mind was racing. Somehow Tom must have found out that she had nursed the prisoner in their cottage. But who had told him? Surely not her father, for she had indicated to him that he keep quiet. As she lay there, the guilt she had felt at hiding the truth from her husband was overtaken by a surge of anger. How dare he treat her like this, when she had merely been doing what the captain had asked of her?

  There was a taste of blood on her lips. Gingerly, she put a hand to her jaw and felt the place where a bruise must be forming. Pain stabbed her chest as she rested an arm on the bed and struggled to rise. She held her ribs and limped to the mirror. The lower lip was swollen and the inside of it had a ragged tear, apparently pierced by a tooth. As she stared at her disfigured face, a cry fractured the stillness. It was Netta waking from her morning doze and eager for her dinner.

  Moving as fast as her bruised ribs would allow, she hurried to the kitchen, ran a bowl of water and bathed her face in an attempt to lessen the swelling. Her father must not see what had happened, but where was her father? He should have been in for his dinner by now. Taking a gulp of the cold water, she rinsed her mouth and spat pink froth into the bowl. Finally she urged her aching body in the direction of Netta’s cot, to calm her distraught and hungry daughter.

  *

  Tom hadn’t climbed far towards his favoured spot before he saw his father-in-law in the distance. The anger that was propelling him up the hillside without effort began rapidly to dissipate, as he saw the dilemma with which he was faced. Duncan was on his way home for dinner. When he arrived, he would find his one and only daughter bruised and bleeding. He stopped, indecisive. Duncan looked up, caught sight of his son-in-law and began to stroll across the field towards him.

  Tom recalled the afternoon of his homecoming. It was Duncan who had told him that Ellen had been looking after a sick prisoner. He hadn’t mentioned it as taking place in his own cottage. Was it possible that the prisoners had been inventing this story in order to provoke him? If so, they had more than succeeded. What an idiot he had been, if this was the case. He remained rooted to the spot.

  ‘You all right, lad?’

  He nodded his assent, shame relieving him of his voice.

  ‘Are you no’ coming for dinner?’

  In silence he turned to accompany Duncan slowly down the hill. He must be clear in his mind what had gone on in his absence.

  ‘Duncan. Tell me about this sick prisoner. Where did Ellen look after him?’

  There was a pause. ‘She told you, laddie, did she no’?’

  ‘I want you to tell me.’

  Duncan glanced at his son-in-law and away again. He sighed. ‘Och, well. You’ll find out one way or another. She looked after him in the house. The captain came to see her… He asked her if she could care for this man. He was in a bad state when he came. She didnae want to do it… but the captain said he would pay and she thought, well, it would bring in a bit of money in hard times.’

  ‘And how long did he stay in my house?’

  ‘A long time, right enough. Only went back last week.’

  ‘When she knew I was coming home,’ Tom added bitterly.

  Duncan glanced sharply at him. ‘He wasnae ready to go till then. He’d been out walking a time or two to get his strength up.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘No, with Ellen and the baby. They wouldn’t have let him go alone, in case he got lost.’

  ‘Of course not. And tell me, where did she do this nursing?’

  ‘We put up a bed in front of the fire in my side of the cottage. It was cosy for him there.’

  ‘It must have been… though a bit lonely away from his pals.’

  ‘Oh Ellen kept him company in the evening. I told her she was doing more than she was paid for, but she wouldnae listen.’

  ‘I bet she wouldn’t!’ Tom said vehemently, his face flaring red at this innocent explanation of his wife’s infidelity. He stopped, staring moodily at the cottage below them. ‘I’ve lost my appetite. Tell Ellen not to wait for me.’ And without further explanation he turned on his heel and made off rapidly across the field, scattering sheep before him as he went.

  21

  Comings and Goings

  As the days lengthened into spring, Ellen knew that she was carrying Tom’s child. She longed to tell him, but she had no idea where he was. She had not set eyes on him since his rapid exit from the cottage as she lay on the bedroom floor nursing her broken ribs. She had rarely, if ever, seen her father as angry as he had been on his return from bumping into Tom on the hill behind the cottage.

  ‘Wait till I lay my hands on him! How dare he do this to you! How dare he!’

  ‘Someone must have told him that I looked after Josef here and he must have jumped to the wrong conclusion. I wish you hadn’t mentioned me looking after him, Feyther. It would have saved a lot of trouble.’

  ‘It would have been a lot less trouble if you hadnae agreed to take him in the first place.’

  She couldn’t help but agree with her father. She could understand Tom’s anger; though, looking back on it, she would not have forgone the pleasure of looking after Josef. What she couldn’t understand was why Tom didn’t return, even if it was to further berate her for not being honest.

  She had thought then that he might have met with an accident, for mishaps did occur, even amongst those who knew the rough terrain of the hills well. She had set out to search for him, encouraging her reluctant father to do the same. Duncan had walked eastward into the valley and Ellen had climbed to the topmost peak, where Tom often went to sit and think and admire the view. But there was no sign of him. She had scanned the rough grass around the summit, tears stinging her eyes and running down her cheeks before they were whisked away in the biting wind.

  It was only when she had put Netta in her cot that first evening after his disappearance that she noticed his uniform was missing. The wooden hanger swung empty on the back of the door. She had searched everywhere – in the wardrobe, in the chest of drawers, even under the bed, but the uniform was nowhere to be found. Neither were his other clothes nor his kitbag. It had all vanished, as though he had never been home. It was when she saw that the framed picture of Netta had also disappeared that she finally realised he had chosen to go.

  She wrote to Tom at the same address to which her previous letters had been sent, but had received no reply. Neither did he write to her with any word of explanation for his sudden disappearance. At least, she had thought, writing again, he would respond to news of her pregnancy. But there was nothing.

  She was wretched. Unable to eat and constantly nauseous, she nevertheless had to help with the lambing and the care of the orphans that were an inevitable result of this gruelling season in the shepherd’s calendar. And, as the time for shearing approached, things got no better. Three months after Tom’s disappearance, she began to be really ill.

  She was channelling the sheep through from the hol
ding pen to where her father and Kenneth Douglas were waiting for them when the pain struck. The two men, with the help of an old shepherd hired for the occasion, were intending to make the most of a fine day to get the shearing underway. Ellen bent double as the spasm gripped her. She clung to the wooden gate of the shedder, breathing hard until the pain subsided. Around her legs the sheep bleated in frustration at their imprisonment. She glanced at the shepherds but they hadn’t noticed her discomfiture. Lifting her pinafore to wipe away the beads of sweat that were dotting her forehead, she breathed more slowly to steady herself. The pain had gone now but the intensity of it had left her weak and shaking.

  She fumbled with the exit gate as a second pain began to build within her. The sheep, pushing impatiently, escaped in a rush and Kenneth Douglas looked up in surprise as they rampaged into the small field.

  ‘Are you all right, hen?’ he called anxiously, letting go of the ewe he was holding.

  ‘Aye, I think so. Just a bit of pain. It must be that rabbit pie I made last night. I shouldnae have eaten such a large portion.’ She attempted a smile, but the pain intensified and her face turned ashen.

  ‘Let’s get you inside, my lassie.’ Duncan, realising his daughter’s distress, laid down the shears he had that moment picked up, and abandoned a ewe to skitter unchecked across the pen until stopped by the fence, where she stood bleating loudly. He put a fatherly arm around Ellen and helped her into the cottage. She sank gratefully into the armchair. ‘Nae, lassie. It’s not like you to take ill. You’re usually such a strong little thing. What can I get you… a drink of water, maybes?’

  ‘Aye, that would be good. I’ll rest for a bit.’

  ‘Will you manage with Netta?’

  ‘Aye. She’s no trouble. She’ll play here on the rug. You go and get on with the shearing.’

  Duncan turned reluctantly to the door. ‘I’ll be back soon, ken, to check how you are.’

  He disappeared and Ellen laid her head back and closed her eyes. The pain had eased now but she was frightened. She didn’t want there to be something wrong that would harm the baby. Her pregnancy was unknown to anyone except herself… and her husband, if he had received the letter she had written. As things stood, she would rather it remained that way, until she knew what Tom’s intentions were.

  It was with great relief that she heard footsteps in the passageway an hour later. There had been no recurrence of the severe cramp she had suffered in the field but it had left her with a nagging ache. She thought that she might ask her father to send for Margaret Murdie. Her neighbour’s unofficial midwifery skills were well known and Margaret would be able to settle her mind about the baby. When there was a gentle knock on the door and Margaret herself popped her head into the room, Ellen could not contain her relief.

  ‘I was passing and thought I’d call in with this.’ She drew from her bag a knitted cardigan. ‘It’s for Netta. It’ll fit her hopefully when the next winter comes. It’s too big at the moment but she'll grow into it.’

  Ellen was so glad to see her that she began to laugh and cry at the same time.

  ‘Why, whatever’s the matter, lassie? Is something ailing the wee girl?’

  ‘No. She’s fine. It’s me. I’ve taken a pain in my stomach and… you see, I’m expecting another baby and I’m that worried…’

  ‘Are you, hen? That’s grand news. Does Tom know about it?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I’m not sure whether he does or no’. I’ve written to him with the news, but I don’t know whether he’s got my letter.’

  ‘Well now, what I suggest is that you go and get some rest for an hour or two and let me look after the wain.’

  ‘But the shearing…’

  ‘…Is going on very well without you. Men can aye manage when they have to, believe me.’

  ‘But Mr Murdie…? Have you no’ got to get back to look after him?’

  ‘Robert’s a lot better than he was. He’s insisting on getting back to the sheep and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. He always was a stubborn man and has never listened to anything I said.’ She shook her head and gave a small smile. ‘He was trying my patience no end when he was cooped up in bed, I don’t mind admitting.’ Margaret took Ellen’s arm and helped her from the chair.

  It was cool in the bedroom and Ellen lay back gratefully and watched the curtains rise and fall in the breeze. The sounds of shearing wafted in on the air… the murmur of men’s voices, a shouted oath, as a sheep struggled to escape her fate, a loud guffaw as a bawdy joke was shared between them. And then she slept.

  Her pain returned to wake her in the night. She lay unmoving, as early light filtered through the thin curtains, and listened to the calls of waking birds and the bleating of the denuded sheep. She wanted to get up and walk around, but she didn’t want to disturb Netta. Then she remembered that Netta wasn’t there. Margaret Murdie had suggested that she take her for the night to allow Ellen to rest without interruption.

  As Ellen put her feet to the floor, she felt her head begin to spin. A wave of nausea passed over her. She sat on the side of the bed, holding onto the headboard until she felt steadier. She stood up again and began to make her way to the door. The next moment, she was stepping through a black tunnel and the light up ahead was receding into the distance and, no matter how hard she tried to reach it, the brightness dimmed and dimmed and finally went out.

  *

  Margaret Murdie’s face was the first thing Ellen saw when she opened her eyes. All she felt was an overwhelming weariness. Even to turn her head was an effort. Margaret’s smile comforted her and she closed her eyes again. Sensing a drifting off into sleep, she pulled herself together and attempted to speak, surprised at the weakness of her voice.

  ‘Is it you back with Netta? Has she been a good girl for you?’

  ‘She’s been a very good girl. Nae bother at all.’

  ‘I must get up and see to her and let you get off to your farm.’ Ellen struggled to lift her head from the pillows.

  ‘Nae, lassie. You’ll be going nowhere, so lie still.’

  ‘But you had her last night. I can’t let you…’

  ‘Ellen, you’ve been ill. I’ve been here with Netta for a few days.’

  Ellen frowned, trying to rearrange the muddle that was swirling around in her head. She attempted to sit up but once more tiredness got the better of her and her head dropped back on the pillows.

  ‘Ellen. Listen to me. I’ve something to tell you that you must hear.' She paused and took Ellen's hand in hers. 'You’ve lost the baby, Ellen. Do you understand? You’ve lost the baby you were carrying… and a lot of blood. That’s why you’re so weak. The danger is past now, but you must rest and get strong again.’

  The girl lay unmoving, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, and silent tears began to track down the sides of her face into the tangle of hair that spread out over the pillow.

  ‘Does Tom know?’ she said at last.

  ‘I don’t know, hen. Your father wrote to the same address as you, but we’ve heard nothing yet. It’s full early though. A letter may still get through to him and then they’ll let him come home, rest upon it.’

  ‘You told Father then?’

  ‘Of course, hen. It was your father who found you in the night. You had collapsed on the floor. He sent Kenneth to fetch me. Netta had an early wakening that morning, to be sure. I had to bring her back with me. I couldn’t very well leave her with Robert. She would have wondered what was happening… and, anyway, Robert was never very good at looking after wains. You should have seen him with Iain. All fingers and thumbs he was when I asked him to help. Not a bit like your father when you were little. Duncan always knew exactly what to do.’

  ‘He had no choice really with Mother gone, did he?’

  ‘No, hen, he didn’t. So you must count your blessings. Things could have gone a lot worse. If your father hadn’t heard you fall, I hate to think what might have happened. Little Netta might be without one of her parents.’

 
‘She still might be. There’s been no word at all from Tom. I have no idea whether he’s alive or dead.’

  ‘Come along now. You mustn’t talk like that. We must keep hoping and praying for our sons’ and husbands’ safe return. He’ll come back to you, and don’t you doubt it. Meanwhile you must get well and strong again. I’ve agreed with your father that I will stay on for a wee while, to see how you improve. Robert is able to fend for himself but, in any case, his sister is coming to stay tomorrow, so he’ll be able to rest again once she’s installed. She never stays for less than three weeks, once she’s arrived.’

  *

  On the night of Margaret’s summons to the Douglas farmstead, Josef Kessler had been unable to sleep. Since the day of her husband’s return from the battlefield in early February, Josef had not spoken to Ellen. He had often seen her walking with the baby, though always in the distance. She seemed bent on avoiding him, for she never came close to where the men were working and he suspected that Vogel’s meddling might have prompted her husband to object to the help that she had given. He guessed also that her husband would have returned to his battalion long ago, for leave was never granted for longer than a few days, if the British treated their soldiers and sailors in a similar way to their own.

  The sight of Netta being wheeled in her pram by the older woman was disconcerting, because it was so unusual. He had never seen the toddler in the company of anyone other than her mother. He looked at the woman as she hurried past. She must have been a similar age to his own mother. Her hair was greying, her cheeks weathered with the outdoors, her rough clothing, he supposed, that of the older farming women of the area. He longed to ask her if all was well with Ellen and the little girl, but he could not. Since the upset instigated by Vogel, there had been strict instructions that no contact was to take place with the villagers and farmers. And even if he had met her, how would she have understood his request?