Fields of Blue Flax

by Sue Lawrence

  I used to try to help him with his reading and writing at lessons every month. And we revelled in each other’s company, enjoying Sir Walter Scott and Shakespeare’s comedies. We laughed a lot and this was something that was always lacking when Father was in the manse. I realise now that not only was David Barrie a good man, he was the only man I have ever loved.

  When you were born, my life was filled with joy and, since I was living at Corrie with David’s mother at the time, away from my father, I was blissfully content not only with you, but with life. What a beautiful baby you were. Rising every morning to tend to you was the best of times, brief though they were. You were only in your fourth month when I had to give you up.

  When Mother died I was brought back to the manse and you had to live with David’s wife, Margaret, who brought you up. I am forever grateful to her for that, for I simply could not have done that at the manse. I wish I had been kinder to Margaret but I found it so difficult to watch her bringing up my own child. And as you know, Elizabeth, we were very different people, both in character and in circumstance.

  As you will read, there was a paternity suit, instigated by my father, whereby David was named as your father. He was such a compassionate man and so he took the blame for something for which he was not responsible. He took all the shame upon his shoulders. I perhaps ought to add that in all our time together, just the two of us, there was never any suggestion of impropriety. Just a mutual respect, friendship and understanding of each other.

  It was so sad when, soon after you went to live at the Barries’ cottage, he died a horrible death from eating poisonous mushrooms. I was distraught, but could not reveal my true emotions to anyone, not even to my dear Cookie, since she was on friendly terms with his wife. Father of course considered his death a welcome end to the whole dreadful affair since, to everyone else, David was the father of my baby. My precious baby – you, dear Elizabeth.

  Father would not permit me to attend the funeral but I used to lay flowers on his grave every week. I like to think you have some of David’s kind and gentle character, certainly none of my father’s overweening and haughty air. He was nothing more than a hypocrite, one whose entire life was a lie. There, I have said it. May God forgive me.

  It is becoming dark and I must stop writing now. I can hear the clattering of dishes down in the hall which means that Cookie will soon be coming upstairs with some of her soup which I must try to eat, though I have no appetite for anything. I only feel I want to have a long, deep sleep, now I have written this letter to you.

  Elizabeth, when you read this, remember me. I do hope you find love and joy in your life and it is also my sincere hope that your life will be filled only with good and with happiness, never sadness. I also harbour a secret longing that perhaps you might become a pianist like your mother.

  And I like to dream that one of your children or grandchildren might perhaps take the name Charlotte so that, although you will never bear the name Whyte, there may be still something of me, your loving mother, in your own family.

  I am convinced that in heaven I shall meet David once more and I will be able to thank him for what he did for me, and for you, my dearest child.

  With all my love to you always,

  Your mother,

  Charlotte Whyte

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks for giving advice and time: Bill Boyle, Mary-An Charnley, Anne Dow, Mary Duckworth, John Evans, Faith Lawrence, Jess Lawrence, Elisabeth Hadden, Stuart Hadden, Sue Hadden, Isabel Johnson, Lauren Mackie, Ann Naismith, Sue Peebles, Isabelle Plews, Anna Reynolds, David Yates.

  Thanks for their professionalism and patience to Jenny Brown and Julie Fergusson.