‘No!’
‘Aye, and noo that pair laddie is doon a day’s wages.’
‘But is that no his job - the Big Man like?’
‘No, it’s no, it’s the Overseer’s job, eh. And that is Willie Harkle on that shift and he is no best pleased, ah cun tell ye, no best pleased at a’.’
‘The manager’s wife looks a right miserable bitch right enough.’
‘Nae wunner, marrrit tae that.’
‘That skinny she is. Could dae wi a guid plate o’ mince and tatties in her.’
‘Ah, but the Inglish’ll no eat that, shairly, it’s a Scottish bite.’
‘Huv ye niver heard her speakin’? Ah heard her in the Dochter’s surgery arguing wi’ that sour faced receptionist. She’s no Inglish at a’, but she tries to speak proper like.’
‘Where’s she fae then?’
‘Dinnae ken, sounded awfy like a teuchter tae me.’
‘Aye well that explains a lot, eh?’
Chapter Fourteen
The main gates to the estate look as though they have not closed since before even Mrs Watson was born but the two stone lions perched on their pillars now stretch out welcoming arms to Ellie. She tugs to close the gates behind her but soon discovers they hold fast like a fence post stuck in concrete.
‘Running away again, Ellie?’ she mumbles to herself. As she trudges up the hard black tarmacadam she is reminded of the road to her home village.
When the President came to power after Independence, no one expected the first of his whims to be the building of a new road from the capital to his home town two hundred miles away. The area’s small gold mine was to be developed and an airport was also deemed essential for the area. It was rumoured that the President planned to reclassify his newly rejuvenated home town into the new capital, the Gold Capital, even though many doubted the existence of bountiful reserves.
Ellie is not sure how it came about that this monster should be chosen for the particular honour of President, but his cruel reputation in her homeland gave way to gloomy predictions about the years ahead. The country was poor. Stories drummed through the forests and savannahs of rich oil finds in the delta. The colonial rulers had been reluctant to leave after that particular shock, but the wheels of independence had already begun to click and stutter and grind into place. Small groups of militia, opposed to the elected government, had begun to cause sporadic disruption in the surrounding villages.
The President’s home village is the next one to Ellie’s and the road is now complete. This she knows because the Fairbairns’ estate has a stake in a mining operation there and James had been invited to attend the official road opening ceremony.
After Ellie married James she spent most of her days working at the clinic and waiting for the birth of her child. But she heard through her brother Matthew’s letters that hundreds more migrant workers had to be shipped to this rural region. These workers had to be fed and housed and the surrounding villages were expected to accommodate this demand. Her brothers had farm land on which they grew yams and groundnut. The women maintained smaller patches of land to grow enough basic crops to feed their families. The villagers depended on these staple foods for their survival and yet when the road was planned no-one took into account the farmland, including her brothers’, which would be churned up for the big black road to nowhere. The very land needed to feed the workers.
A vicious circle, Ellie thought. The salt river where women collected small shellfish to sell at market was dammed, destroying their living. The irony of this conundrum did not concern the President: he wanted his road and his mine, and the displaced population and the workers who died drilling, blasting and laying this gamble were of no concern to him.
On her last visit to her mother, just before she left for Scotland, Ellie witnessed the aftermath of this destruction.
She smelled the smoke from the cooking fires long before she expected to reach the villages. A line of grey canvas tents stretched to the horizon. Bare-bellied children scampered towards her holding out their hands for a treat from this stranger. She, a stranger in her own village, had not yet seen any of the familiar dwellings of her people, hidden as they were by the dense camp.
Her mother’s house sits almost in the middle of the village, close to the chief elder’s compound. Here she has lived with Ellie’s elder brother Jacob and his family in a little shack with a corrugated iron roof for many years, ever since Ellie’s father died of a dirty cut. When Ellie was sent to follow her brothers to a mission school at the age of ten, she had been sure that her parents would have a happy old age in the village.
Her second brother Matthew returned to the village with a desire to settle down and farm his own land. Once he had chosen his bride and claimed his land, his family had grown to a good size to keep him in his old age: three sons and three daughters. When the road construction began, Matthew was forced to uproot his family back to the village and their mother’s home; they had nowhere else to go. Her mother’s home was barely big enough for one family, never mind two.
Ellie felt her heart flutter as she neared her mother’s home. Several of the older women watched her pick her way through the houses; some called a greeting, welcoming her back from the town. She saw her mother squat beside the cooking pit. Ellie knew she was about fifty years old but she looked like an old woman compared to the women of similar age in the town.
She thought of the fresh-faced nuns in the school with their superior carefree confidence, a result of a lifetime of blind devotion, faith and childlessness. How would they have survived living her mother’s life? The older woman looked up, saw her daughter standing before her, and a broad grin flashed across her face showing white teeth that would not permit the sucking of sugar cane. That smile transformed the face into the one Ellie remembered: the wrinkles wiped clear to leave an expression of beauty. Her mother unravelled her legs and straightened her back in the fluid movement of a butterfly taking flight as she stood to her full height. Years of carrying pots and firewood on the head had left all the village women with an imposing posture. Ellie felt her heart lift as she watched her mother glide towards her, as if the air around her feet elevated her six inches above the ground.
‘Daughter.’
The hands that stretched out towards Ellie’s were rough from working in the fields alongside the other women. She earned her keep and would not be a burden on any of her family. Ellie grasped these hands in her own soft, educated palms and allowed her mother’s arms to hug tight and pat the small sleeping body of Nat strapped to her back. All the breath left Ellie’s body and drifted above the scene of mother and daughter meeting after an unbearable absence.
‘Mama.’ Ellie hardly heard her own whisper as her language came home to her, but soon she was babbling to her mother in the tongue she was born with, her fine education forgotten for a time.
Matthew came to the door of the house and laughed when he saw his sister.
‘Welcome, little sister.’ She noticed he did not welcome her home. There was no longer a home for her here in her village. The President burned her bridge behind her and built his road on top when she left. She knew she had a new home to go to now, but she was overcome with sadness at the thought that Nat would never again see his motherland as she knew it.
The crunch of her wellies on the gravel brings Ellie back from her past. The big hoose lies just ahead of her and she tries to remember if this is where she intends to be. James will still be in Perth. She has no need to go back to the witch’s hat just yet. The forest holds no appeal to her today. It can be left to the mythical Flannel Foot. She places her hand round her back and pats the bottom of Nat. Black babies - that is what Mary calls her country’s children. She remembers the Mission Hospital and the boxes of supplies, the vaccines for the babies. Was it the exploitation of these Scottish children that paid for these vaccines? Did the President take his cut to help build his road? Ellie shakes her head; that is too impossible to believe. The church would not
permit that.
Mrs Watson steps out the kitchen door cradling a large calabash bowl to her chest. She stops when she sees Ellie and looks back into the house as if she would like go back in. Instead she looks at Ellie again and says,
‘Ah’m jist going tae get some veggies fae the garden.’
Ellie waits, she does not want this woman to dismiss her and this must have shown on her face because the older woman chews her lip and says,
‘Want tae come with me and then when we get back we can have a cup of tea?’ she pauses. ‘If you like, that is.’
‘’S ok, if you’re busy.’
‘No, no, hen, ah can see you need tae talk.’
Ellie tries to take the bowl but Mrs Watson shoos her away like she would a curious cat. ‘You can carry it back if you like, it’s normally too heavy for me and Dod hates tae leave the garden.’
As they approach the walled garden Ellie notices the golden dog staring at her from behind an iron gate. His tongue hangs like wet washing from his mouth; his whole body is swaying in opposition to his tail. He is like a dancing lion. His face is broad and smiling
‘Get ye back there, Boggie,’ Mrs Watson says in a too loud voice.
‘Boggie, here!’ A harsh roar comes from deep in the garden and the effect on the dog startles Ellie. The smile disappears from his face and as he turns his worried eyes to Ellie, he seems to be imploring her to love him. His swaying halts and he crouches down and crawls along the path, almost on his belly.
Mrs Watson seems to read Ellie’s mind. ‘Don’t worry, hen, Dod’s not cruel tae him, he just needs a firm hand. He is a right daft dug that - just over recovering fae an operation, so he is; ripped his belly open on a gate while he wis barking at the bucket men. Just got his stitches oot the other day. No doubt Dod’ll be worried he does hisel’ some other harm.’
The man with the cap is sorting through some small brown plant pots with okra-sized seedlings in them. He nods to Ellie but does not say anything.
Mrs Watson says, ‘Don’t mind Dod, it’s no’ you, hen, he’s just a bit shy.’
Ellie wraps her arms around her waist and touches her bundle who she knows is awake and content to listen to the exchange. She suddenly feels warm as she wanders past plant beds, mounds of earth trenched up off the ground as they do in her country to prevent the rain washing the seeds away. Neat rows of seedlings poke tentative heads from the soil. The back wall is covered in thick stemmed vines trained up and secured. Mrs Watson hands her bowl over to Dod and joins Ellie on the path.
‘It’s a grand sun trap, eh? Gives us an earlier growing season than most, and longer too.’
‘Aye, and ye’ll be wantin’ the new tatties soon enough, and ah’ve not long planted them.’ Dod returns with the bowl which is filled with potatoes and greens. On top are some white flowers with small yellow centres, like fried eggs, two bunches, the stems of which Dod secures with twine.
Mrs Watson picks them up.
‘Two today, eh?’ she passes one out for Ellie to take. ‘One is for you,’ she says.
Ellie holds the flowers up to her nose; she inhales the delicate perfume with undertones of the sweet smell of earth and kindness. It acts like an adrenalin injection into her veins. She feels a lump in her throat and is sure she will cry had a whip not lashed her on the back of the leg; she spins round and there is the smiling dog wiggling his body and begging for a pat.
‘Oh all right, one clap before we leave,’ Mrs Watson says, grabbing a handful of the dog’s ears and tossing his head from side to side. Ellie thinks the dog’s ears will pull off, but his smile grows and his eyes close in what looks like ecstasy.
‘Give him a wee toober yerself,’ Mrs Watson says.
Ellie place her flowers on top of the brimming bowl and pats the dog’s back while he is still asking for Mrs Watson’s attention. He responds immediately and lunges at Ellie, bashing his hard head against her knees. The feel of his warm velvet ears is soothing even though she continually has to remove her hand to prevent the lolling tongue licking it. She is not so sure the dog is clean and she had seen plenty bad cases from dog bites back home.
‘Right, we better get this stuff back. Thanks, Dod. Ellie is going to help me back with the bowl.’
Ellie looks at the brimming bowl. Should she? She does not know if she still can. It would be a good test for her, but how would they react? She looks at Dod who is grabbing the dog’s collar, and then she looks to Mrs Watson who has already been to Africa. Lifting the bowl to shoulder height is not easy, but as soon as she heaves it higher, on top of her head, she feels the weight transfer from her arms to her whole body. She adjusts the weight and walks towards the gates where she stops and turns her head round with ease. Mrs Watson is following as if this is the way most of the Hollyburn villagers return from the village shop.
‘Thank you for the flowers, I shall not forget your kindness.’
Dod puts his head down but Ellie is sure he is pleased. Mrs Watson trips along behind Ellie. ‘Well, my dear, this is a fine skill you have, you can come help me anytime,’ the older woman says. When they reach the house she helps Ellie lift the bowl to the big table in the kitchen.
She hands Ellie the flowers again. ‘There, aren’t they just the job? He might be shy, that Dod, but he sure kens how tae please a lady,’ Mrs Watson says while taking an electric kettle to the sink and filling it.
‘Right, how about a cuppa,’ she says. ‘And then you can tell me what’s bothering you.’
Ellie thinks this is a fine idea and begins to unwrap Nat’s bindings.
As the cup of steaming hot tea is laid down on the table for Ellie she can feel a hard stone lodge in her throat. Her lip starts to tremble, and even though she knows she must not in front of Nat, Ellie begins to cry.
‘Now come on, hen,’ Mrs Watson says, taking Nat from Ellie and giving him a piece of rhubarb dipped in sugar to suck. ‘Tell me what’s the matter.’ She hands Ellie a Kleenex and places an arm around her shoulder.
Ellie can feel the strong grip of the woman who is old enough to be her mother.
‘Is it true that the children here pay to own Black Babies?’
‘Christ,’ is all Mrs Watson says before falling silent. But the pressure on Ellie’s shoulder increases.
‘A little girl, Mary, was proud to tell me she has ten black babies and wants to call her next one Nat.’
A groan escapes Mrs Watson. With Nat hitched on her hip, she sits down opposite Ellie and takes her hand. The hand is rough, used to hard work.
‘Look, Ellie, you are tae pay no heed tae that. It is only a device the church has tae get their bairns involved in charity work.’
‘I was brought up in a mission. Was it these pennies that paid for that?’
‘Ah dare say it wis, but only part of it. There are charities all over the world that feed money into Africa and India and all sort of places. Dinnae take it sae hard, you must have kent that the money wis coming fae somewhere.’
‘But to be granted permission to give a name to these children.’ Ellie can almost picture the card with her name on it.
Mrs Watson shakes her head. ‘Ah know what you’re thinking and it’s just nonsense. The nuns would have given you your English name, no’ a bairn.’
‘My father gave me my name.’
‘There you go then, what are you worried aboot?’ She hands Ellie a fresh Kleenex and says, ‘Come on now, drink your tea and think o’ the lad here, he disnae want tae see his mum greetin’, does he?’ She stops and says, ‘There’s nothing else bothering you is there?’
Ellie thinks about the husband in Perth with the grandmother Nat has never seen and sticks her tongue to the top of her mouth to store these words away.
‘No,’ Ellie says, trying to smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘Any time, hen, any time.’ She looks at the kitchen clock. ‘Now ah must be getting on with the food preparations. The boys are due back from clay pigeon shooting, and they’ll be starvin’ and in need of a
bowl of soup.’
Mrs Watson helps Ellie tie Nat to her back and hands over her flowers again.
‘Dinnae you be worrying aboot the bairns in this village, they can be a pest but they’re hermless.’
The Pairty Line
‘Did ye see the fire last night?’
‘Ah heard the fire brigade, eh. How, whit wis it?’
‘They wee brats fae across the burn set fire tae the workie’s hut on the buildin’ site. Bloody hooligans, so they ir. They nearly burnt the hail place doon. It took the fire brigade an ’oor tae pit it oot, cause the hydrants wir sae far away. They hud tae tak the water oot the burn.’
‘Thir right wee toerags, across that burn. Ah reckon the council deliberately pit aw the riffraff ower there.’
‘It’s cause they cannae git decent folk tae live there noo. Ah heard it wis they Taits that stertit it.’
‘Aye well, it wid be, eh. Thir niver far fae trouble that lot.’
‘Ah cannae unnerstand how that mither o’ theirs allows it.’
‘Can she stop thum? She looks as though she disnae hae her sorrows tae seek.’
‘Her man’s that smert tae.’
‘Ah ken. It’s a wonder he can stand tae live in the same hoose as the rest o’ thum.’
‘Thir must be something keeping him there.’
‘Aye well, it isnae her looks that’s fur sure.’
‘That’s an awfy thing tae say.’
‘It’s true. Dae ye ken how auld she is? Thirty five.’
‘Niver! She looks ancient, at least fifty.’
‘Aye well, that’s whit a hoose fou eh hooligans dis tae ye.’
Chapter Fifteen
When Ellie ends her visit with Mrs Watson it is dusk. One bright star has put in an appearance but no more. She narrows her eyes to the gradual darkness as she walks away from the big hoose lights. The trees lining the drive seem to creep nearer to its edge. She remembers the sudden night of her home village, so like a blanket being thrown over the world.
The Incomers Page 11