Her Sister's Gift

by Isabel Jackson

  “That’s right, Isa.” Ina was so glad to see Isa take an interest in things again that she left her to explain the process.

  “The milk lies here till the mornin’, when the cream will hae separatit oot and be floatin’ on the surface. Then Betty and Ethel can skim off the cream fir the butter.” Isa looked over to her grandmother, who nodded to confirm she was doing a good job.

  “So does that mean we’ll hae to wait till tomorrow tae see the butter bein’ made?” They could both hear the disappointment in Margaret’s voice.

  “Naw,” Isa reassured her. “This mornin’s milk is ready tae skim. It’s o’er here.”

  They moved over to the other end of the shelf, where the morning’s pancheons were covered with muslin. “Can I do some skimmin’, Granny?” asked Isa.

  “Ah dinnae see why no’. Let’s get the skimmer doon,” and she reached up to the hooks on the wall and brought down a short-handled, saucer-shaped wooden skimmer, which she held low down so that Chrissie and Margaret could see the tiny holes in it. “See they holes? They let the milk back through whilst the skimmer catches the cream.”

  Then she handed the implement across to Isa, who dipped it carefully into the pan, gently dragging it through the milk, then lifting it out. Caught in the saucer of wood was the pale yellow cream and dripping out from the holes came the bluish milk. When the milk had finished draining, Isa scraped the cream out of the skimmer and into another dish ready to go to the churn.

  Margaret peered into the dish. “There’s no’ much there. Will it be enough, Granny?”

  “Yer right there’s no’ much. But ye see we collect some every milkin’ and we’ve a few pans o’er here from yesterday and the day afore. When we put today’s in with these there’ll be enough fir the churn.” Ina took the cream from the different pans and tipped them into the wooden churn. Then she replaced the lid and the plunger and, grabbing the handle, started to push the plunger up and down in the sloppy cream.

  “Can I try?” Margaret asked, practically jumping in excitement at Ina’s side. She was given the handle of the plunger and guided to bring it down into the cream and then to pull it back again. Her arms were like wee pistons to start with, but fairly quickly slowed to a stop. The top of the plunger was level with her head and the action was particularly tiring for a wee one.

  However, having seen her sister allowed to use this fascinating object, Chrissie too wanted to help and clamoured for her turn. “My do it.” So Ina got a stool and stood Chrissie up on it, holding her firmly around the waist and assisting her to dunk the plunger down and pull it up again. Isa had her turn too and so did their mother, and with the dairymaids helping as well, the churning was soon done. Ethel called their attention to the different sound the cream made as it changed from liquid to semi-solid.

  “That’s hoo we ken it’s near ready,” she told them. “Then we tak’ awf the lid and have a wee keek inside. Sometimes it needs a bittie mair workin’. Let’s see hoo we’re daein’.” She lifted off the lid and let the plunger move over to the side of the churn. “Aye, that’s no far off. Another minute or so and we’ll be grand.” She replaced the lid and continued the plunging and shortly there was a real sticky, sucking sound, different from the swishing and slushing of earlier in the process. Now the lid came off and the plunger was scraped free of the butter grains and the churn was drained into muslin draped over a large bowl. The muslin caught the butter solids and the buttermilk drained into the bowl.

  “Noo,” said Ina, “that’s the buttermilk for the scones on Thursday. We’ll just lay it by covered wi’ the muslin. And noo we hiv tae get tae work on kneadin’ the butter. Clean hands only fir this job.” And they all washed again. Then each had a go at beating and kneading the butter until the surface was covered in tiny droplets, glistening like beads all over the creamy yellow butter. “That’s the water and buttermilk that was still inside the butter. Noo that it’s oot the butter will stay firmer and smoother.”

  Chrissie had wandered over to a low table, which was covered with lots of round butter moulds. She was about to roll one on the floor when her mother caught up with her and rescued the mould. She picked Chrissie up in her arms and held her close. Ina held her breath. She hadn’t seen her daughter reach out for Chrissie since they’d arrived. This was what had been worrying John.

  “Chrissie, come and see what these are for,” Mary said and she handed it to Isa and then provided a commentary for them all. “Watch how Isa fills the bottom part with the butter and then puts the moulded lid on top. Now she squeezes it down, twists it off.”

  “Oh,” said Margaret and Chrissie together as the pattern was revealed on top of the circular pat of butter. Another twist and the bottom part of the mould was taken off too and the butter was ready to be wrapped in greaseproof paper, ready for sale.

  Margaret puzzled at the pattern. “What’s this shape, Granny?” she asked.

  “That’s a doocot: the old tower house the pigeons used to be kept in, the ruin the farm is named efter. That way the customers ken whaur the butter was makit. Noo let’s tak’ some butter in for oor tea. The scones are waitin’ for this and there’s the gingerbread for efter.”

  Isa stayed on for a bit, helping the dairymaids wash the pails and cloths and talking with them.

  As she left the dairy, Margaret’s hand in hers and Chrissie still in Mary’s arms and cuddled into her mother’s neck, Ina’s spirits leapt a little. She’d been right to bring them all here. The darkness was beginning to lift.

  Over the next few days, Ina let them each sleep until their own wakening bodies brought them out of bed. She fed them with her home-grown produce and she kept them busy with the farm tasks. They fed the hens in the morning and helped the dairymaids. Then there was kitchen cleaning and cooking. On nice afternoons they weeded the kitchen garden and picked vegetables for their meals and packed the remainder for the weekly market. The children were all more relaxed and Isa especially was transformed. Some of her old confidence was returning and she was communicating more naturally again, taking an interest in the little ones and getting involved in all the jobs Ina set before her. Although Mary had made some progress she still had a long way to go and Ina was still worried about her when she took them to the station to see them off.

  She helped them into the carriage. Along with the suitcase they’d come with there was another, lined with greaseproof paper and filled with fresh fruit, vegetables and new-laid eggs wrapped in newspaper, scones and gingerbread in extra layers of greaseproof paper, and jars of raspberry jam and apple chutney.

  “Noo girls,” she said firmly. “You all be guid and tak’ care o’ yer mither. I want to see these rosy cheeks still bloomin’ when I visit next month.”

  They responded with a chorus of, “Yes Granny, we will.”

  Then Ina turned to Mary and wrapped her arms around her, folding her head onto her ample bosom. “Mary, my darling girl,” she said into Mary’s ear, “be strong, be well, for those you still have wi’ you. I will be praying for you night and day. God bless you.”

  Mary released herself, stifling sobs. “Thank you, Mither, for awthin’.”

  They held each other’s gaze for some time, Ina willing strength and peace to her daughter and Mary desperate to take it. The guard blew his whistle and Ina reluctantly stepped off the train. As it pulled out of the station she waved and waved a white handkerchief until long after the train was out of sight, unaware they could no longer see her for the tears spilling from her eyes unabated.

  John was delighted when he met them at the station to see how well they all looked. The two wee ones were back to their old selves, bouncy, chattering and contented, full of all their exploits at the farm. Isa was at least speaking again and looking much more positive and engaged with life. And Mary looked as though she had been eating properly and had reconnected to her role as the children’s mother. She had Chrissie in her arms and had a hold of Margaret’s hand while he helped Isa with the cases. He felt a load lif
t from his mind as he brought them home.

  *

  The children had just started to wear grey clothes at the end of the five-month full mourning period when Mary became unwell and took to bed. She was pale, weak and feverish and her pulse was erratic. The doctor thought it was her heart and advocated rest. John’s sister-in-law, Thomasina, known as Auntie Teenie to the girls, came to help for a while but when her own daughter took ill she had to return home.

  Isa stayed off school and kept things going as best she could, seeking help from Jessie when she was unsure. Mary hardly spoke. She drifted in and out of a restless sleep, fevered and breathless. Sometimes she sat up a little on raised pillows with staring eyes, listless and mute. Her sleep was disturbed with terrible dreams that caused her to moan and sob even as she slept.

  And then one morning, very early, Isa was wakened by a different sound. It was her father sobbing, “No. No. No!”

  Isa got out of bed and went anxiously to the kitchen door, her heart thumping. “Mither. Faither.” Tentatively she opened the door. Her father was holding her mother, rocking her to and fro. Her mother’s arms were trailing beneath her and her head lolled on her husband’s arm. There was something strange about the whole thing. It was not the usual scene of her father comforting his inconsolable wife.

  “Mary. Oh ma Mary,” he sobbed as he brought Mary’s face close to his own.

  “Faither?” Isa tried again. “Faither? Whit’s wrong?”

  Her father raised his head, his face flooded with tears, “She’s gone from us, Isa. She’s gone, lass.”

  Isa’s legs gave way and she slumped down against the wall. As if she had been hit a hammer blow, her breath seized in her chest in a loud gasp and her whole body felt wrapped in chains. How could her mother be dead? Her mind just would not take it in.

  John, overwhelmed with grief, kissed Mary’s face and held her to his chest, rocking her. As his own tears subsided, he saw his grief-stricken daughter shaking against the wall. Gently he laid Mary back on her pillows and rearranged the bedding around her. Then he came over to Isa, lifted her in his arms and took her across to the rocking chair, smoothing her hair in a comforting rhythm and shushing her as he had done when she was a baby.

  “Isa, dinnae greet sae sairly, lass. Yir mither couldnae thole the loss o’ Eliza and the bairn. She’ll be at peace noo she’s wi’ them. It’s up to you and me noo tae look efter the ithers. Oor tears winna help onybody. We’ve to be strong noo,” and they both held on to each other until the sobbing ceased and they fell into an uneasy sleep.

  4

  When Margaret and Chrissie were told, it was clear they did not understand the emotional impact. They were both sat at the kitchen table before breakfast. Margaret realised the loss of her mother’s role in the house and tentatively said, “Does that mean you’ll be the mither noo, Isa?”

  Before Isa could answer, her heart heavy with loss and confused at the idea that she should be seen in her mother’s role, her father answered for her.

  “Aye, lass, it does.”

  Chrissie, already sitting with her spoon in her hand, tapped the table with it and in her toddler’s egoistic state of hunger, pronounced, “If yer goin’ to be the mither, be the mither.” So Isa dished out the porridge, intensely aware she was entering a new phase in her life and determined to do it well for her mother’s and Eliza’s sakes. What was it the minister had said? That those left behind must be inspired by those who had died and live by their good example and not be weary in well-doing. That’s what she had to do now. No looking back, no more grieving. There were tasks to be done and she had to do them. And so she shut her pain and grief deep inside and turned her mind and body to her new role.

  Tuesday afternoon was her mother’s turn for the wash-house. Isa had often helped her on returning from school so she knew the routine. Her mother had always done the whites – sheets, shirts, nightshirts – first off, when the water was just off the boil. It had to be taken from the boiler into the tub, soap grated and then the clothes added. Wielding the wash dolly, which was like a paddle used to swish the clothes around in the water to release the dirt, was quite some task for Isa, but standing on the duckboard, the raised wooden step beside the tub, helped her get more purchase on it. Into the final water for rinsing the whites she added the “dolly blue”, which helped give the whites an extra-bright white look.

  One day, not long after Mary’s death, Isa was in the wash-house. She was just finishing running the heavy sheets through the mangle, to squeeze out the water from the last rinse, when there was a “cooee”, and Maisie Macpherson from down the street put her head around the door.

  “How are ye, Isa? My, yer fair gettin’ on. Is there onythin’ I can help ye wi’?” Maisie was a big-built woman dressed in black serge and a floral wrapper. Isa knew her mother had not really liked her, finding her to be as nice as ninepence to your face but liable to decry you as soon as your back was turned. So Isa was keeping her wits about her.

  “Well, Mrs Macpherson, no’ really. The worst is daen. I’ll just hing oot the sheets and get the coloureds washed noo. I’m daein’ fine. Thank you for askin’ though.”

  “That’s just grand. Yer faither must be right proud o’ ye, Isa, fillin’ yer mither’s sheen sae weel.”

  There was a tense silence. With a slight quiver in her voice, Isa replied, “I’m daein’ my best, Mrs Macpherson, but I cannae fill her sheen. She was a much better mither than I am. We all miss her sairly.”

  “Oh I didnae mean tae offend ye, lassie. It wis a compliment tae ye. Yer managin’ awfa weel. In fact, I hiv a proposition that micht make life easier for ye. I wis wonderin’ if my time in the wash-hoose would be better suited to ye. Ye see my turn is Friday mornin’ and that would mean ye’d have awthin’ cleaned for the weekend. And ye wouldnae hae the scrubbin’ o the flair tae dae at the end o’ the day. Ye’d hae more time in the efterneen to get yer faither’s supper ready as weel. Whit de ye think? I’d be glad tae gi’ ye ma slot.”

  Isa felt under pressure. How could she decide that right now? “Well, Mrs Macpherson, that’s very kind o’ ye thinkin’ aboot me. I’ll talk it over wi’ my faither and see whit he says.”

  “Oh. Right ye are then. If yer sure.” She sounded almost peeved. “I’ll leave ye tae it. Looks like ye’ve awthin’ under control,” and she walked stiffly out of the wash-house and clicked the door shut behind her.

  When she left Isa continued to mangle the sheets and transfer them into the basket, all the while mulling over what Maisie Macpherson had proposed. She walked out to the green and pegged the sheets up on the washing line, strung between the two iron poles placed diagonally opposite each other to give the longest hanging space. As she was bending into the basket for the last one she realised that one of the reasons her mother had liked the Tuesday afternoon slot was that they could use the wash-house into the early evening as long as they tidied up. It meant they had more time to do all the washing, and then her mother had boiled up another lot of water, filled the zinc bath tub and they had all had a wash in it. If she swapped with Maisie, the morning slot would be far more rushed and Margaret wouldn’t get a wash, for she had started the school now. No: she would keep her mother’s slot and they could all still have a bath. She was pleased she had seen through Mrs Macpherson’s wily plan. Dressed up as helping Isa, it had really been about helping herself to the better slot.

  Mrs Macpherson was not the only neighbour who tried to take advantage of the young girl trying to be mother and housewife, but most of the women on the street were good to her, keeping her right about shopping, store cupboards, cooking, cleaning, childcare. But it was Jessie she always turned to first, and she was on hand with sound, practical advice and wise counsel. Her grandmother, Ina, was a great help too, but she was a half-hour’s train journey away and much needed on the farm, so her visits were often spread apart. Isa took to writing her grandmother a weekly letter with news of the family, which she loved to do and which Ina loved to rec
eive. Sometimes Isa would ask a practical question about household issues: perhaps how to darn her father’s socks so they weren’t so lumpy when finished, or how to cook a particular cut of meat she’d seen in the butcher’s shop. However she soon discovered the butcher himself was happy to give his customers tips on how best to cook his produce. He’d often keep aside special pieces for Isa, aware of how hard she was trying to keep up her mother’s standards for the family.

  “Here ye go, lass,” he would say, when other customers had left the shop. “I’ve kept this bit o’ plate for ye. Just you broon that gently then pop it in the slow oven in the range wi’ whole skinned onions and carrots aroond it. Leave it hotterin’ for twaw, three hoors and it’ll be fine and tender. Ye can mak’ a braw gravy wi’ the juices that’ll hae aw’ the flavour o’ the beef and the veggies. Yer mither aye said it was one o’ your faither’s favourites.” And she’d be handed the beef wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The price he’d pencilled on the paper would always be a bit cheaper than he’d charge wealthier customers.

  It helped, she supposed, that her father and his eleven brothers were well known in Falkirk, notorious even. They were nicknamed the Fighting Dicks due to their prowess in taking on the travelling fighters who arrived with the fairs, knocking most of them senseless to walk off with the prize money. But John Dick was now respected as a hard-working moulder and family man despite the notoriety of his fighting brothers. His wife Mary, had been of gentler breeding, as the daughter of a businessman and farmer who owned his own land and had kept his children on at school until they had passed their leaving certificate. Her influence had left its mark on John and he was able to read and write, and keep abreast of current affairs in ways other workmen could only admire.