by Jess Smith
Mother Foy heard the last part of the conversation, and thought it best to rescue Megan before she shared more than she needed to with the handsome Michael.
‘I wonder if we can leave me old Beth with you for the winter. The gorse field gives little shelter, and with her being on the old side...’ From a concealed pocket in her skirt she brought a little pouch to pay her animal’s feed, but Stephen, who put an arm around Bridget, assured his old friend that they would care for her horse as long as she wanted, and added, ‘No payment for feeding’.
‘Now, why did I know that you would say that? Bless you all, and thanks.’ She pulled her shawl across her shoulders and drew it tight. ‘I wonder if I might enquire of you something else before the girlie and I take to our beds. Bull Buckley—you haven’t seen him sniffing about these parts, have you?’
Much to their great relief, no one had seen or heard of him for many a month. They had heard, though, that his life-long sidekick, that weed of a man Hawen Collins, had met a bad end.
‘What happened to him?’ Mother Foy pretended not to know anything about it.
Stephen took a log from a basket at the side of the fireplace and placed it in the big iron grate, ‘Bridget, you met a gypsy girl didn’t you? Remember the one who told you about that fight?’
‘I do remember something, now what was it?’
The old woman glanced over her shoulder at Megan and winked.
Bridget continued, with the undivided attention of her visitors. ‘It was in a pub on the outskirts of York, the Dog and Gun. Seems a bunch of locals were having a laugh at a mate’s birthday party when Hawen, being drunk, tried to gatecrash. He was for the chop, when one bulky guy threatened to fight him. The stupid fool took the challenge, probably thinking that because he was known to be the great Buckley’s friend, the big chap would back down.
‘What happened?’ asked Megan, lowering her voice to disguise an obvious panic.
“Well, there’s a mystery as to what really happened, but this big chap took him out in the back-alley. The next thing, someone passing saw Hawen’s body all hacked.’
‘Did you find out how he died?’ Mother Foy asked quietly.
‘Stephen met a policeman he knows. You tell them, dear.’
‘His neck was broken, but he’d a knife wound at either side of his heart. My friend said the big man, him who did it, wasn’t a guest at the birthday party, nor had he ever been in that pub before. Locals at the Dog and Gun thought he was a passing gypsy having a quiet drink. No one was sad to see Hawen’s end, though, and that goes across the board. Just a pity his mate Buckley didn’t get it too.’
‘He won’t be so easy caught, he has the sign of the Devil, that black-hearted one,’ Mother Foy said in a low voice. She leaned forward in her chair and spat in the fire. ‘That’s what I think of him! Now, I feel we have taken far too much of your hospitality for granted, it’s time for bed.’
Megan helped her onto shaky feet, and guided the tired old lady off to a very comfortable bedroom Bridget had prepared earlier. Michael said goodnight with a long lingering look at Megan. A tingle ran the whole length of her spine. He made her feel strange, but he made her think less of Bruar and that was wrong. She wished Christmas Day was over, and they were home in the wagon. She said so to her companion.
‘Now, child, try not to think too much on the young master. Mind you, if I was your age I’d be hard-pressed not to give him the eye.’
Megan blushed; her old friend seldom spoke of romance. She continued, ‘I don’t doubt for a minute you’re not tempted, none of us are exempt from temptation, but it’s the consequences that you have to watch out for. It’s been a long time since a man held you, and the longing will be there, you’re human after all. But might I add you are not like others. You have a living husband somewhere, waiting. It might be the case he knows little of what is going on, but the time will come when his eyes will see again. I have a feeling you are joined to this Bruar of yours. A force far stronger than any mere mortal controls things, and if I’m not mistaken this force guides you. Remember this!’
How could she forget? Here she was on her quest to find him, indeed a long road lay ahead. A longer one lay behind, but while she could breathe and walk she would not give in.
‘I feel a lot better now. Is this not the night the Son of God came; the great star shining in the east?’ Megan was peering from the bedroom window at a beautiful starry sky.
‘So they say, girlie, so they say.’
‘Then I shall do something I very seldom do.’
‘What be that then, my young friend?’
‘I shall pray.’
‘What will you pray for?’
‘For the safe union, one day soon, of me and my Bruar.’
‘What a perfect place to dream,’ she thought, sinking into a soft warm mattress covered in spotless linen sheets. It sported a shiny brass bedstead with bows of yellow silk tied here and there. ‘I can’t remember ever seeing pillows of this size, nor sleeping with an old gypsy.’ She nudged her bed companion, laughing, ‘They are as big as my tent bed was, these pillows.’
‘You make me laugh, you do, girlie; but best get some sleep now. And as for myself, well, after that news that Buckley is out there somewhere, I’ll sleep with one eye open.’
‘Surely he wouldn’t be so stupid as to risk coming here?’
‘That beast crawls the earth without a brain, his skull’s filled with bad brawn. He’s like a mad bull. He’d come here alright.’
‘But why should he?’
‘Listen, girlie, you might think me short of a shilling, but I knows how much is in a pound. You told Mrs Newton what you saw the night her man got murdered. Don’t tell me you didn’t, because I can see a lie like I see a rainbow. If Bull Buckley so much as sees a muskrie, he’ll know who fingered him. He’s got scores to settle.’
‘Then perhaps you had best stay with these kind folks, and I’ll take off to find my man. Surely he won’t bother you if he knows it was me who did the dirty on him?’
‘Stay the winter. This is a big lonely country, full of rivers, country roads and dales. To travel you need to know the place where you’re going, and money. Now let’s be honest, you have neither. Come spring, I’ll give you a shilling or two and help, but not just now.’
‘But if Buckley comes he’ll know you’ve helped me, and heaven forbid, hurt you. I couldn’t stand that on my conscience.’
‘If Buckley wants to come, he comes whether we be together or not. Now, get some sleep, will you, girl.’
If they wanted a long lie in bed, then Nuala put paid to it. Ages before the cock crowed, her eager little legs were running up and downstairs, and along to the bedroom at the far end of the ranch-style house where her visitors slept. Megan listened both to her constant knocking on the door and her oohs and aahs on opening another gift from Santa. Although she hardly knew the child, it would have been nice to have something to give. But then, here was a girl who had a world of material wealth. What could a mere tinker give such a one?
She was certainly the better for the early morning call. Bull had flitted in and out of her dark dreams, his red hair hung over one eye, and a helpless hedgehog held between his gruesome jaws. But thankfully, a bright morning pushed him to the back of her thoughts.
She gently lifted the covers from her side of the bed, not wishing to awaken old Mother Foy; but there was no need, her companion was already up and about. With a feeling of embarrassment and guilt at resting longer than the old woman, she washed in a basin of water left for that purpose, dressed and quickly brushed her hair, and rushed along to the large sitting room. Nuala had taken herself upstairs, probably to share her Christmas joy with her parents. Apart from a smelly hound curled in a dog basket by the stone fireplace, the room was empty, just as it had been the night before. ‘I wonder where my old friend has got to,’ she spoke out loud.
‘Megan, I’m here.’
She glanced around the room, it was empty. She asked,
‘Where?’
‘In this blasted chair.’ A limp hand fell from a blanket covering a wickerwork chair by the far wall next to long flowing curtains; it was the old woman.
‘I didn’t see you under the cover. What’s the reason for deserting a warm bed at this ungodly hour?’ She knelt down by her side.
The old lady was pale and sickly looking; she was holding her side, obviously in pain. She made a weak attempt to sit forward, but the pain forced her back.
‘What in the name is the matter?’
‘I felt cold in the night, then I felt hot, my head got to thumping and this sharp pain like a hot poker in my chest. It’ll be little or nothing, probably just the walk yesterday. Nuala too, she was all over me like a nettle-rash, dear sweet child. Yesterday was too much for me and this is the result. If we can persuade Stephen or Michael to hitch a buggy, take us back to my varda, I’ll be the better in a couple of days.’ Through the grimace of pain she forced a smile, then laid her head back against a brocade cushion perched behind her.
‘Do you want a doctor?’ The old lady was far from well, and her colour worried Megan.
‘Phew, a doctor, that’ll be right. No, just give our hosts a call, then put the kettle on for everybody, it’s the least we can do.’
‘Nuala will be sad that we don’t share Christmas dinner with them.’
‘It can’t be helped. Old age is what it says, and things old don’t work well.’
A concerned Bridget, who’d heard their voices, came downstairs. ‘What’s the reason for my guests in this cold sitting room, without so much as a hot morning cup of tea?’
Megan thought she should be aware of her friend’s condition. ‘It’s Mother Foy, Bridget, she’s not at all well and wants to go home.’
Bridget rushed over, leaned forward to examine the old woman’s face and said. ‘Tis the saddest news now, how did you end up being sickly on this, the day our Blessed Virgin gave birth to the Lord. Little Nuala will be heart-sorry for sure.’
Just then Stephen came downstairs carrying Nuala, who was already dressed in riding gear; part of her Christmas present from Uncle Michael.
‘What’s wrong, Mother Foy?’ asked Stephen, gently dropping Nuala on a chair.
‘Nothing a good rest in me own bed won’t cure.’
‘She wants to go back to her wagon. Could either you or Michael rig up a buggy?’ asked Megan.
Michael said, ‘Ah, you poor old thing, why don’t you stay here. Spend the day in bed, we can bring you a fine spread of turkey and stuffing on a tray.’
Little Nuala came rushing into the room, and when she heard what was going on, cried, ‘I have a present for you, Mamma, please stay.’ A parcel, loosely wrapped, was retrieved from beneath the Christmas tree and put gently onto the old woman’s lap. It was a green, paisley-patterned shawl.
Bridget, who’d been making tea, set a warm welcoming cup on the small table beside Mother Foy’s chair and said, ‘It was our mother’s Sunday best. We want you to have it.’
Mother Foy unwrapped the present and draped the shawl over her knees. ‘A fine present. Thank you, Nuala, I shall treasure it.’ She looked at the couple, then at Michael and said, ‘You know me well enough that if I say I’m sore, then I am very sore. There’s nothing more I’d rather do this day than to have Christmas with you. Me pain is strong, though, and I wouldn’t eat or drink. I’d hate not to enjoy a grand feast after all the time and effort you’d put into it, Bridget. No, all I want to do is sleep in me own wagon-bed, but if Megan wishes to stay, then it’s me blessing I’ll give her.’
‘No, I’ll look after you.’
Michael seemed rather annoyed and she couldn’t understand why. He walked outside, muttering that he’d get the buggy ready and take them back to the gorse field.
‘Nuala, sweet child, will you do Mamma a favour and keep an eye on Beth?’
‘Of course, but you must stay nearby to see my beautiful foal when uncle brings her over on the ferry.’
‘I’ll come first time I feel better. But if she be like her mother, I remember her beauty very well.
Help me to my feet, Megan, we’ll be off,’ she said, holding a hand out for assistance.
Little Nuala and Bridget gave the old woman a hug, making her promise to hurry and get well. Stephen promised to keep an eye on them. His parting words, though, brought a chill to both as he said, ‘If I hear any news of Buckley, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
Mother Foy closed her fingers tightly over Megan’s arm; these were words neither wished to take back with them to the lonely spot down by the gorse field.
‘You do that. Now a million blessings on all for this Christmas Day.’
Hugs and kisses over with, Michael drove up with a small two-man buggy. ‘Sorry, but we’ll have to squeeze together,’ he told them.
‘I’ll sit to the outside, me stomach feels a bit under the weather,’ said the old woman, adding, ‘talking ’bout weather, I’ve got cold earlobes, and that’s a sign of more snow.’
As they huddled close for warmth, Megan, while keeping an arm round her companion’s shoulder, couldn’t help but feel the way Michael’s muscles rippled as he controlled the reins. It was only a mile to the wagon, yet she wished it were longer. It had been such a long time since she had felt the breath of a young man against her face and the movement of strong legs rubbing hers. Feelings she’d not experienced since she and Bruar made love on the braeside returned with a fire to them. Even although a fierce wind blew a torrent of bitter cold at her body she was warm. Beneath her breasts, little beads of sweat formed, making her feel more and more uncomfortable. Confusion took hold: how could her face sport a bright red nose, yet such a heat burn beneath her collar? The same feelings that had been generated by Bruar’s closeness filled her mind; she was attracted to this stranger.
‘Never,’ she told herself, ‘I will not do this, I can’t think this way.’ The wind lifted her skirt; she curled it down under her shaking knees. Deliberately she stiffened her legs, hoping he’d get a message of hostility. His gaze forced her to look into his eyes; she turned away, but only for a second. She was lost under a spell.
Suddenly the old woman called for him to slow down, and as he did so she vomited over the side of the buggy’s leather seat.
She had been so wrapped up in her newly discovered emotions, Megan had forgotten her friend was suffering. Guilt and anger spread through her, she felt so ashamed. Rachel’s words, away back at the campsite in the Angus Glens filled her head—‘You hussy, have you been working the pants off yourself?’ Perhaps her sister was right. Was she was a hussy? ‘No, I’m the proud wife of Bruar Stewart, and I will not betray him unless he has gone. If he’s alive I’d never forgive myself, nor be able to look him in the eye again! Oh no, surely I am not letting words like “unless” and “if” creep into my head,’ she scolded herself. ‘My love is waiting for me, and that’s that.’
Soon the young man was pulling gently on the reins as the horse came to a halt on the gorse field edge. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as she helped them down.
He offered to help by carrying the old lady into the wagon, but Megan protested. ‘I can manage fine, we don’t need help.’ Then she added, ‘Best get back to your celebrations, you don’t want to miss your dinner.’
At first he didn’t turn his face in her direction; instead he jumped back into the buggy and turned it around. ‘I feel easier in my mind that you are with the old woman, but there’s a favour I want to ask of you.’ His smouldering brown eyes now held her gaze. ‘Let me wait until you put Mother Foy to bed.’
‘She’ll freeze to death without the fire lit. No, I’m sorry but I’ve no time to waste chatting—Jack Frost is already closing around our feet.’ She was trying harder than ever to avoid his eyes.
‘Then let me light the fire.’ Without a word from either, he was up the steps of the wagon and in a flash had the stove emptied and filled with a heart of kindling. He seemed to know where the matches were kept,
and soon had a grand flame pushing thick smoke up the long chimney that projected from the roof.
Mother Foy slid under her bed covers, while Megan made her a cup of tea. Before half of it had been taken she was sound asleep. Outside Michael tended the horse and waited.
Quietly she opened the wagon door and asked, ‘Do you want a drop tea?’
Now that her old friend was asleep, something of the closeness with him made her feel vulnerable. In an instant he put his strong hands around her wrist to steady it while the cup wobbled in her shaking hand. He gently took the tea. She watched as it slid over his throat, rippling down his fine broad neck. Shivers danced up and down her spine. She pushed her hands in her pockets and asked, ‘Well, here I am, what is it you ask of me?’
‘I almost forgot there for a moment,’ he said. From his jacket he took out a small black velvet box and gave it to her. She’d never seen or handled one like it before, and for a minute didn’t know what to do, except stare at it nestling in her cold hands. The feel of the material was warm and pleasurable.
‘Open it, then, sure it’s not going to bite!’
She felt awkward and stupid and thrust it back into his hand, then turned and opened the door; but he held her arm tightly and said, ‘Nobody should go through this day without a gift from someone, here.’ He lifted the small, compact lid displaying a shiny necklace.
Although no light from the sun or any other source fell upon it, the shine was magnificent. ‘I cannot under the cloudy sky accept such a bonny thing, now put it back into the box and away with you.’ Smiling, he simply ignored her protests and slipped it on her slender neck. ‘Christmas gifts must never be refused, sure now, that’s the height of ignorance. Anyhow, what’s a little bit of gold between friends?’
At his words her chest thumped like a hammer—gold! She’d never ever seen the precious metal, let alone been given it. His gift would indeed be kept close to her beating heart, but it was the last part of his comment that felt good—the word friend. Yes, if he was to be a friend, then she could keep it that way. Yet all the time, her wildest innermost thoughts were of intimacy. It would be so much easier if they were friends. She took his hand, shook it clumsily and said, ‘I’d be honoured to be your mate, and thanks a million for this beautiful necklace.’