Daughter of Dark River Farm

by Terri Nixon

  ‘McKrevie?’

  I found it hard not to smile with relief. ‘Oh. Yes, perhaps that was it.’

  The vicar frowned. ‘Well, I’d never thought of them as generous-hearted, as such, but they do contribute financially to the upkeep of the church. Although—’ he brightened slightly ‘—Mr McKrevie’s two granddaughters are in town presently. They’re both certainly kind enough to sweeten the old…uh…’ He stopped, blushing slightly. ‘They live at number eighty-four. The big house with the courtyard, and the sycamores by the gate.’

  I knew it was pushing things too far to hope he might agree to accompany me, so I said the next best thing. ‘Could I ask your name, sir, so they know I’ve spoken to you?’

  ‘You can tell them Father Steven sent you. And good luck, young lady. Young ladies.’ He doffed an imaginary cap, and I smiled.

  ‘Thank you so much, Father Steven.’

  Armed now with a story, and the name of a respectable referee, I rang the bell of number eighty-four, and waited with a thundering heart.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘There’s no Mrs McKrevie,’ the butler told me, eyeing Amy with ill-concealed curiosity.

  ‘Mr McKrevie then?’

  ‘Which one?’

  I thought back, and somehow came up with the name: ‘Mr Ballentyne McKrevie?’

  After a moment I was shown to the sitting room of the large, though certainly not Oaklands-sized house. It was more like the type of house in which I’d grown up—a respectable and fairly impressive town house. The furniture was plain, which I liked, but there were no feminine touches that I could see, which meant I couldn’t hope for a woman’s sympathy. My story suddenly rested on very thin ice. I had no time to think up another, however; the door opened and a tall, thin man came in. His face was craggy and lined, and his eyes, sitting above puffy pockets, gleamed with sharp intelligence.

  I stood up immediately, keeping the still-silent Amy’s hand firmly in mine. Behind Mr McKrevie I saw two girls, one around Evie’s age, one perhaps sixteen. They were both pretty, but the younger girl, black-haired and blue-eyed, had a liveliness about her that was evident from the outset; she didn’t sit politely, like the other one, but drifted about the room, paying little attention to either Amy or myself, or, indeed, the man I guessed was her grandfather.

  He opened his mouth to speak to me, then, distracted and irritated, turned to her. ‘For crying out loud, girl, sit down!’ His accent was strongly Scottish, and although it was nothing like Archie’s gentle accent it gave me an unexpectedly sharp pain.

  ‘Sorry, Grandfather,’ the girl said, and came to sit beside her sister, who was looking from me to Amy as if trying to guess what I would say before I said it.

  I brought the story out again, seeing the younger sister soften as I hinted at Amy’s tragic circumstances, and made sure to mention Father Steven. ‘He said you were very generous-hearted, and always contributed to the upkeep of the church,’ I half lied.

  ‘Did he now? And that makes you think you can just walk in and drop your wee cast-off here?’

  ‘She’s not mine,’ I repeated calmly. ‘I’m just trying to do someone a service.’

  ‘What did you say her parents were called?’

  I faltered, then decided on names I’d remember, so I wouldn’t trip myself up later. ‘Her mother’s Evie, and her father’s William.’

  ‘Can you prove you knew these people? Have you any photographs of you with them? Or with her? How do I know you haven’t just snatched her off the street?’

  To what purpose? I wanted to ask, but didn’t. ‘No, I have no photographs with me, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Grandfather, it’s only for a little while,’ the younger girl said. ‘We have the room to spare, and she wouldn’t be any trouble, I’m sure.’

  ‘She wouldn’t,’ I said eagerly, shooting her a grateful look. ‘And Evie would collect her just as soon as she recovered.’

  ‘Open the child’s bag,’ McKrevie said.

  My patience with his games was growing short; either he would consider taking the child under his roof or he wouldn’t. ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘I want to see what kind of provision your sister has made for her daughter,’ he said bluntly. ‘If there’s care taken over what she’s provided, I might believe your tale.’

  I swallowed an angry retort. After all I was the liar here. He was perfectly right to disbelieve me. But I could see now why Frank had known Amy would not be welcome here. He knew his father’s reputation well. I opened Amy’s small bag, and McKrevie hooked it towards him with his foot. He pulled out the few, clearly old and ill-fitting blouses, dresses and items of footwear, laying them surprisingly neatly on the floor beside him. I watched, with growing despair, as I saw exactly what he was seeing.

  ‘None of these will fit that girl properly,’ he said at last. ‘You’ve just picked these off a market stall.’

  ‘I haven’t!’ That, at least, was the truth.

  ‘Grandfather, the little girl’s sweet,’ said the older girl. ‘And look, she’s very well behaved.’

  ‘She’s not a toy,’ McKrevie snapped, ‘and you’re too old to be gushing over a stranger’s child, Louise. If you had one of your own you wouldn’t need to.’

  ‘It’s not my fault you frighten everyone away!’ Louise snapped, and stood up, smoothing down her dress. ‘No wonder Mother refused to come down with us. I’m going out for a walk.’ She turned to her sister. ‘Are you coming?’

  The younger girl sent me an apologetic shrug, and followed Louise from the room. I saw McKrevie watching them with a look of exasperated affection on his face that was wiped away as soon as he turned back to me.

  I bent and picked up the clothes Frank had found for Amy, and put them back in her bag. ‘Am I to understand that, despite what Father Steven said, you’re not—’

  ‘Don’t use that tone with me, girl,’ McKrevie said. ‘And it’s got nothing to do with Father Steven. This is my house, not his, and I won’t have you making me out to be the one at fault.’ He sat back in his chair and regarded me calmly. ‘Furthermore, I don’t believe that child has any connection with you, and I don’t believe you’re trying to find her a home because you’re going out to France, either.’

  ‘Belgium,’ I said. I thought back to my first few nights at our little ambulance station, Number Twelve. ‘I’m going to be attached to a unit just outside Dixmude. You can call and check in a few days, if you like. Ask to speak to a Captain Buchanan. My name is Katherine Maitland. You can describe me.’ I held my head up and let McKrevie have a good look, but I knew all he’d remember would be ‘short, plumpish and red-headed.’ It would be enough; Archie would realise something was afoot, and would back up my story even if he didn’t understand it.

  I felt a twist of longing for him that hurt, and turned away from McKrevie so those shrewd eyes would not spot any of the pain in my face. ‘I don’t know what you think I’d have gained by—’

  ‘Gained? What I think you’d have gained, girl, is the right to call back in a week, or a month, or even a year, when that child is firmly established under my roof, and in the hearts of my family, and demand some kind of payment for letting her remain here. And you know you’d get it.’

  I saw how it looked then, and my resentment fled. ‘I understand. You’re wrong, but I understand. I won’t trouble you any further, Mr McKrevie. Thank you for hearing my request.’

  He stood up. ‘Cardew will show you out.’ Then, to my surprise, he held out his hand. ‘Perhaps your motives are pure after all, in which case I wish you and the child well. But you must understand I cannot open my house to every waif and orphan that comes calling. And many do, especially since the war started.’

  I shook the hand he offered, remaining cool by reminding myself he’d just turned us out without any idea that I had anywhere else to go. But I did have somewhere. I would take Amy to Dark River as I’d planned, and we would look after her until Frank had found the means to take her away
somewhere…anywhere. She couldn’t go back to her mother, to that life. It would be no life at all.

  I was almost at the park, and wondering how Frank would feel when he saw his daughter again—he was sure to have mixed emotions—when I heard a timid voice just behind me.

  ‘Miss?’ I turned to see the McKrevie girls, looking a little embarrassed, but quite friendly.

  I nodded in greeting, and smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I quite understand your grandfather’s position. We’re strangers to him.’

  ‘Aye, he’s not a bad man,’ Louise said. ‘I think, because of his job, and the house, people think he’s richer than he is. But it’s an old family home. We’re no that rich really.’

  ‘What is it your grandfather does?’ I didn’t like to ask about their father; he would be fighting age.

  The girls looked at each other, and I saw Louise give a tiny shake of her head. With my thoughts on Archie, the first thing that came into my mind was secret war work, but that wouldn’t have made sense, if people were trading on his job to coax favours. It wasn’t my business though, and I could feel Amy tugging at my hand—she’d seen the open parkland just ahead.

  ‘Thank you for speaking up for me,’ I said to the younger girl. I realised they’d not been introduced by name, but it didn’t matter now.

  ‘But where will ye go?’ She sounded genuinely concerned, and I bit my lip. The lie was in danger of spiralling too far; Amy was sure to run to Frank as soon as she saw him, and the love he held for her would be impossible to hide.

  ‘I’m going to meet my brother,’ I said. ‘He’s been helping me care for Amy since he came home from France.’

  ‘A soldier?’ Louise asked, and I saw the familiar flash of excitement I saw everywhere, in girls who’d had no experience of the truth of war.

  ‘Yes. He lost an arm, so if you come along please don’t stare.’

  ‘Och, I’ll no trespass on your time with your brother,’ Louise said. ‘And you shouldn’t either, Helen,’ she added. ‘Come away now. It’s been nice meeting you, miss,’ she said to me, ‘and I wish you well.’

  ‘I don’t want to come back yet,’ Helen said. ‘Might I please walk with you a while, miss?’

  I fought down a frustrated groan, and made myself smile. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll be home in a wee while,’ she said to Louise. ‘Dinna look at me like that; I’m no going to embarrass myself.’

  Amy let go of my hand the moment her feet touched the grass, and she looked up at me, her eyes huge in her pale little face.

  ‘Why it’s as if she’s never seen grass before,’ Helen said, as Amy stooped to pat the ground with a bemused but fascinated expression.

  ‘She’s lived in the city all her life,’ I said. ‘Run along, Amy. It’s all right; I’m right behind you.’

  ‘Amy!’ A man’s voice cut across the space between us and a bench several yards away, and I looked up to see Frank scooping her up, the expected mingling of happiness and disappointment on his face. He looked over at me, and I knew I had to stop him from saying anything, but before I could speak, the McKrevie girl shielded her eyes and pointed with her closed parasol.

  ‘Is that your suitcase?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your uniform in there? She asked, looking interested. I wondered if another year or two of war would see her going out there herself. She seemed to have too much energy to be cooped up at home.

  I shook my head. ‘No, we’ll get those when we arrive.’ More lies, but I took solace in the fact that I had served, at least. ‘Anyway,’ I said briskly, ‘time is getting away from me, and we have to catch a train.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ she asked again.

  ‘I have one more hope of a place for Amy; Evie told me of a kind lady in Devon.’ As I spoke the words I felt the longing for it sweep through me, so fierce it was an ache. ‘Dark River Farm, near Plymouth.’

  ‘Plymouth!’ she exclaimed, then blushed. ‘Is it pretty there?’

  ‘The moors aren’t what you’d call pretty, but it’s certainly as beautiful as parts of Scotland, I should think. Very dramatic, and quite bleak in places.’ I picked up my suitcase.

  ‘I miss Scotland,’ she said. ‘Mother won’t leave it, and Grandfather says we’ll all maybe go back there to live someday.’

  ‘Why are you living with him, anyway?’

  ‘His health wasn’t too good for a little while, and Mother thought it would help to have someone living in, since he can’t seem to keep a housekeeper for more than a month.’

  Small wonder, if the way he’d spoken to me was any indication. ‘Do you like it here?’

  ‘I like it better than Glasgow,’ she said. ‘And Grandfather’s no so bad as he seems. I miss my father though.’

  ‘Is he away fighting?’ I asked gently.

  She looked at me steadily, then glanced around to make sure no-one was listening. ‘No. He’s a…a conscientious objector. He’s at the Princetown Work Centre on Dartmoor. Used to be the prison, aye?’

  ‘I know it,’ I said slowly, astonished that she would tell me, a relative stranger, such a grim family snippet. That explained her reaction to my telling her where I was going. I searched for a way to take the sad look from her face. ‘They work outside, you know, on the moors. And they’re not locked away like prisoners.’ Like Oli.

  ‘Oh, aye, I know. I’m no worrit about him. It’s just…people say things, you know? He’s no a coward though. He’s what they call an absolutist: willnae do a stroke of work that’ll further the war effort.’

  ‘And how do you feel about that?’ I asked. My tone had become sharp. ‘When you see brave men like him—’ I nodded at Frank ‘—who might be pleased of some help. Soldiers, who would welcome someone who’s safely tucked away at home to make them strong boots to keep out the mud. That wouldn’t be a bad thing, surely?’

  ‘Nowhere’s safe,’ Helen said, echoing Frank’s words. Her eyes went to the skies and I felt a familiar shiver of fear; the air raids had changed of late, but not for the better; there fewer of those ugly, cigar-shaped Zeppelins now, and more bomber aircraft—only a short while ago an enemy attack on the Milwall Docks had gone shockingly awry, and had hit a nearby school instead. Eighteen children had died; few of them had been over the age of six. I looked over at Amy and my heart clenched tighter; already I knew I would be ready to kill for her.

  ‘They bombed Edinburgh in April, you know,’ Helen said, and then repeated, more quietly, ‘Nowhere’s safe.’

  ‘But we’re safer here than out there,’ I pointed out, ‘and those boys don’t ask much of us. It’s our duty to do what we can for them.’

  Helen bit her lip. ‘If my father willnae do anything that’ll help to kill another human being, surely he can’t be held to account for that? He didnae choose the war.’

  ‘So he stays here, helping no-one.’ All I could think about was the men I’d nursed, those who’d died, and those who were maimed… The war marched on, and the boys fell, and this girl’s father spent his days breaking rocks. ‘I really should go,’ I said, disappointed at the way the conversation had turned sour. ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘I hope the Devon lady takes yon wee girl in,’ she said, nodding at Amy, who was coming towards us with a handful of daisies. She looked at me again. ‘He’s no a coward,’ she repeated, and I touched her arm in mute apology for my harshness.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Not many people understand. At least you’re not one of those women who can’t pass a man of fighting age in the street wi’out handing out judgement along wi’ their white feathers.’

  ‘It’s just…I’ve seen…’ I gave up and shook my head. ‘You’re right. I don’t understand, but that doesn’t make it wrong, I suppose. I hope you see your father again soon.’

  ‘And I hope you see the one you’re missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  She smiled then, and seemed older, even older than her sister. ‘The one hidin’ in your head, makin’ yo
u want to be fighting at his side,’ she said. ‘There is one, aye?’

  ‘Yes,’ I managed, my throat suddenly tight. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Because of the way ye looked when ye talked about fighting men, and what they need from us. Has he been away long?’

  ‘Since the start.’ I wiped furiously at the tears that had sprung to my eyes. ‘His name’s Archie. He’s a Scot, too.’

  ‘Then he’ll be fierce when he has to be, and careful when he must,’ she said. ‘You’d better get your train. It was nice meetin’ you, Miss Maitland.’

  ‘And you,’ I said, getting myself under control again with an effort. I watched her walk away, back to the grand house that wasn’t a home, and turned my thoughts away from Archie with difficulty and reluctance.

  ‘Well,’ I said to Frank as he drew level. ‘I tried.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and let go of Amy’s hand so he could touch mine. ‘I’m grateful; don’t think I’m not.’

  ‘But?’ I looked at him warily.

  ‘But I don’t know that I can let her go. Not all that way.’

  I couldn’t believe it. His face was tightly drawn, his mouth a thin line and his eyes cast down, away from mine. He had the most determined look on his face I’d ever seen, yet I could sense in him the longing to be convinced.

  ‘Mr Markham,’ I said gently, instead of giving him the sharp truths that sprang to my lips, ‘please think about what you’re saying. If Amy stays here, with you, it will only be a matter of time before Ruth sends her…’ I cast about for the word, but failed to find it ‘…her men, up here. She can give them an address. They’ll take her. You know they will.’ I gestured to his left arm, not liking myself for drawing attention to it, but there was no help for it. ‘You’ve said yourself, you can’t properly care for her, so how will you protect her?’

  ‘I…I don’t…’ He took a short, ragged breath, then looked at me, finally. ‘I’ll find somewhere.’

  ‘Look, let me take her just for a little while. Until you do find somewhere. You’d be welcome to come and visit her at any time, and you’ll see she’s in a wonderful, wonderful place. She’ll love it. I promise you.’