by Jane Yeadon
‘Aye – we’re running oot o’ seedcorn an’ straw. I canna get enough but wi’ a bit of luck the weather’ll hold, then I’ll get the spring sow finished.’
‘Uh huh. I’m not surprised that farmers always moan about the weather, it’s that changeable, and feeding all the workers on a millie day must be a right nightmare.’ She rubs the counter with her index finger, thoughtfully. ‘At least I’ve got everything Mrs Macpherson’s asked for. Uh huh, uh huh. I’ve even managed to get her some bully beef.’ She glances down at the floor. ‘Hoy, Charlie, could you give me a hand with this box?’
I recognise Charlie. He delivers our papers and post every afternoon; the lady in the Big House, known as Glenernie, and near to us, gets hers delivered first thing in the morning.
Mum says in an annoyed way, ‘We’ve to remember our place and that Charlie works to a higher calling.’
He’s got a round, red cheerful face made for smiling. It lights up the shop as he takes over from Mattie.
‘Let me do it. Here you go!’ He heaves a boxful of groceries up onto the counter. It’s so full that tins stick out over the top. Pictures of pink meat on one might be an effort to brighten each side, but their shapes are far more interesting. They’ve got corners: perfect for playing hoosies and entertaining that fussy doll Belinda.
Standing at the shop door with nothing else to do, I think about her. Over time, she’s made it plain that she’s only ready to chat once breakfast’s over. Then, if we’re alone, she’s plenty to say. She used to speak in a babyish voice but lately she’s changed it to a posh, high-pitched one, like Granny’s friend Eva. She’s so grand she perches her pinkie when she’s holding her teacup. Surprisingly, this is guaranteed to make Granny wink at us.
Being more polite and having tried the gracious nod that Eva sometimes gives, I do it now, whilst remembering Belinda’s words. One day when we were playing at the big hole we use for dumping old tins, she said, ‘Unless one squashes these round ones into a V-shape, one can’t get a decent spout and I do like milk to be nicely poured into my tea. It saves the use of a saucer.’
I must remember to nab these square tins before they get thrown into the dump. A Mr Toad lives at the bottom of it. He stares so much you’d think all the old tins were his. I get quite nervous climbing down into his home to get them, and when scrambling out feel as if his eyes are stabbing into my back.
Returning to the present, I see Mattie pushing the box towards Dod. ‘Between the weather, catering for the helpers and rationing constrictions, it must be a right fash, but Mrs Macpherson’s got good friends and neighbours and they’ve already been to me and bought stuff from their coupons for her.’ She nods approvingly. ‘You’ll know yourself, Dod. We used to call it the Love Darg.’ She eyes him keenly and he gets a sudden attack of coughing.
‘What’s that?’ Elizabeth enquires.
‘Work done for love,’ says Mattie, with a mischievous glint. Then she elaborates. ‘It’s when everybody helped each other, which we still do as much as we can in Dunphail. Now, Dod, you’ll have her book?’
‘Right! That’s it up to date, uh huh uh huh,’ she says, showing that normal service is resumed. She hands the marked book back, but Dod lingers. ‘A quarter of pandrops, some Butter Bas an’ a sweetie for the bairns,’ he says and hands over another book.
‘That’s my folks’ one,’ he says. ‘The old lady told me to get some. She thocht the quines needed a treat.’
On the way back to the car, I notice someone with white hair in Mattie’s garden. She’s dressed all in black. The railway line is just across from the post office. Drawn by the sound of the train’s clickety-clack as it passes, I take my eye off her but, on looking again, she’s gone.
I could ask who she is, but bet Elizabeth and Dod’ll say there’s nobody there. I get into the car, deciding to keep this ghost a secret.
Last year, a steam-driven road-roller, preparing for major road works the next day, was parked overnight near the stackyard at Tomdow. Had it not been for the huge roller at the front, it could have been mistaken for an escaped train engine.
It had Cock of the North engraved on a brass plate on its side. ‘Just so it won’t get lost,’ Mum had joked, then continued, ‘And you certainly wouldn’t want to lose the person who polished that plate. I’ve never seen brighter brass.’
When the roller went, it left a wide flattened area on the road verge and it’s where Dod now parks the car.
‘I’ll need tae store this here,’ he says, lifting out a sack. He crosses the road to get to the Tomdow steading. It’s a few yards down from the cottage and guarded by an ash tree. The elm tree opposite looks down on the stacks waiting for the mill.
With a row of them on each side, the stackyard’s like a small street, the resident foraging birds its shopping people. Belinda and I often come here but since seeing the little girl we avoid passing her house. Instead, we cut through the field below Tombain. It’s probably quicker now that it’s been harvested, but the left-over stubble would scratch your legs if you’re not wearing stockings or wellies.
My mind goes back to our last visit.
‘You’re lucky I carry you,’ I told Belinda.
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but never mind, dear. When we get there, we can rest and enjoy the yard’s sheltering magic.’
Once we were sitting, backs against a stack, and I tilted her face skyward, she mused, ‘One likes it here. It is rather jolly. One feels one’s surrounded by fat people in tweed jackets, there to protect us. So comforting! And you know, my dear, it’s not in the least bit lonely with the birds singing all around. I don’t think they’ve even noticed us.’
‘Some of them’s corn buntings,’ I told her. ‘Dod’s good at recognising birds. He told us their names. They’re a bit like sparrows and seem to get on all right with them, too. Now, ssh, Belinda. Just listen to that bonny chorus. I think the straw’s joining in – just hear the wind rustling it.’
That’s not the case today. As soon as they heard the sound of a car door shutting, a cloud of birds flew up above the stacks and headed for the elm tree. As they flocked onto its branches, they made the tree look as if it was singing a song of chatter and complaint.
There’s a bit of that going on in the car as well, but not as musical.
‘I’m starving. Just as well we got these,’ says Elizabeth, biting a head off her jelly baby. Her eyes sparkle as she waves the body in the direction of the Tomdow cottage. ‘Of course, you’ll be wanting to give yours to your ghostie.’
‘No,’ I say coldly, ‘You said ghosties don’t drink, so I dinna suppose they eat sweeties either.’
She says she doesn’t believe in witches or ghosts, but when Dod comes back to the car and we drive past the cottage, she snatches a glance at it before turning her head to look straight ahead.
13
MILL WORKERS
‘What are you doing?’ I’m grumpy because it’s so early.
‘Looking out the window,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And hurray! It looks as if it’s going to be a grand day for the millie. That’ll please Mum. I heard her blethering to Mary and Smithy. They’re already here to help. I love it when they come.’ She sounds excited as she puts on dungarees and a thick jersey.
‘Suppose this means that you’re not going to school?’
‘Uh huh!’ My conscientious sister is definite. ‘I’m going to be helping Mum. If you dinna want tae be a nuisance, you should bide in your bed. Otherwise, you’ll get in the road.’
Honestly! She’s so bossy! The minute she’s gone, I say to Rabbit, ‘I already knew that she wisna going to school cos I heard Mum having a conversation on the phone wi’ the teacher and she talks to her in a different voice. Maybe it’s because she was once one herself. Sometimes Elizabeth speaks the same when she comes hame fae school. Says she gets a row if she disna talk proper in the classroom.’
Rabbit looks as if he’s fallen asleep but I keep going with Mum’s side of the conversation. ‘The th
ing is, Miss Milne, threshing mill days are always so busy and, now that the prisoners of war have gone back home, it’s hard finding casual labour. Elizabeth’s as good as any adult. I’d find her help really useful.’
Mum must’ve been pleased with the reply because, when she put down the phone, she’d a big smile, then passed on some message to Elizabeth about her being clever enough to miss a few days at school without the building falling down.
I’m not looking for witches in the trees today, and much as Rabbit’s company might be a temptation to stay put, I whisper to him, ‘I’m going to get up now. That bloomin’ Elizabeth thinks she’s so smart, but I’ll show her who’s really clever and helpful in this house.’
I roll out of bed and carry on speaking. ‘I won’t take out the toy box today and that’s just for starters.’
Belinda wants to get up too, but I pat her head and speak to her a lot more nicely than my sister does to me. ‘No, dear. You’ll just get in the road. Anyway I’m takin’ Dobbin. He’s handy for carrying things.’
In the kitchen, I’m ready to tell Mum that Dobbin’s in the barn and as soon as he’s taken back to the house, she’ll have two extra helpers, but she’s with Smithy and Mary in the scullery. There’s so much merriment coming from there, they don’t hear me arriving. Only Elizabeth does.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, intent on spooning tea leaves into a square of muslin. If I was speaking to her, I’d ask what’s she’s doing but stick out my tongue instead. Actually, my words are dying to fill the silence but just as they’re about to spill out, Mary appears.
She’s like a beam of sunshine, with her ready smile, easy way and light tread. A dimple shows as she pats my shoulder. ‘Hello, Sleepyhead.’
She looks at the tea, heaped in a neat pile, and nods. ‘Och, Elizabeth! That’s the very dab. What a grand wee worker you are. You’ve such neat fingers.’ She hands over a piece of string. ‘Now, use this to tie it up into a wee baggie and leave a length for pulling it out of the kettle. It’ll be handy once the water’s boiled and the bag’s been long enough in it to make the brew a right colour.’
‘So, what colour do you want, Mary?’ Elizabeth asks.
‘Tar. The millie boys like a good strong cup of tea. Now, quines,’ she says, wagging a soapy finger, ‘we must all help your mam today and in every way we can.’
‘Ready, willing and able,’ I say, shooting a dirty look at my sister.
Mum’s laughter mixes with the sound of plate, pan-clatter, chat and cup-chink. It’s good to hear her happy, especially when it’s going to be such a busy day. I peep into the scullery.
‘Hi, Janie,’ says Smithy, waving a hand with a dishcloth in it. ‘How’s your catties?’
Whilst Pansy visits us occasionally, and only when she’s fed up of bossing the barn cats and the brose that Mum makes for them, Smithy’s got four who all live in the house. They’d be white, only they’ve toasted themselves so close to the peat fire they’re more a singed-brown colour. Sure she can keep a secret, I’m thinking to tell Smithy about Pansy and her young when Mum says, ‘Pansy’s had her kittens, but we don’t know where she’s hidden them.’
‘If I know that cat, she’ll produce them when they’re old enough to look after themselves,’ laughs Smithy. ‘I never knew a cuter cat. Now, will I butter the bread?’
I almost blurted out about Frankie, but Mum puts in, ‘Elizabeth could help you with that, Smithy. You’ll find the sliced pan in Mattie’s box. And maybe, Mary, you could give Janie a hand taking out the hens’ mash. I’m hearing them complaining they haven’t been fed.’
My stomach rumbles. Never mind the hens, I think. The pan on the stove’s bigger than the normal one and the smell coming from it’s a lot better too.
‘Is that for them?’ I ask.
Mum chuckles. ‘No! That’s Mrs Bremner’s hen broth and it’s for the millie folk, and I hope to God it’s all eaten, otherwise you’ll be having it for breakfast, dinner and tea for the next year. No, the hens’ mash’s at the back door.’
I’m hungry and there’s still been no mention of breakfast. Wondering what Granny would make of the God mention, and just in case he obliges and there’s nothing left to eat, I’m about to sneak a little of the hen’s mash before they get any when Mary catches me.
‘You poor wee lamb,’ she exclaims. ‘I’d forgotten you haven’t had any food. Look, as soon as we get the hens sorted, I’ll get you something to keep you going.’
The larder’s a small, cool room with high shelves and on one of them there’s a tray of newly baked queen cakes.
Mary winks. ‘Ssh! I know your mam’s been busy baking these. They’re to be for the afternoon cuppie, but I don’t think the millie men will miss one.’ Dropping one into my cupped hands, she adds, ‘And we’ll get you some puffed wheat as well. That should give you enough energy to help Elizabeth carry the cups’ basket to the mill. The workers’ve been on the go since early. They’ll be looking for their tea.’
The cake’s so good, I’d love another, but Mary’s right about the puffed wheat. A plateful’s revived me, even to the extent of going back to speaking to my sister.
‘Look, Elizabeth,’ I say. ‘I winna be a minute. I’ll just go ’n’ get Dobbin. He’ll be the very dab for carrying that.’ I mean the basket she’s holding. It’s big. Mum bought it from a tinker who came to the door the other day. She came back laughing after some intense haggling.
‘That tink told me that the last time he visited I wasn’t nearly so grippy and I’d aged an awful lot since his last visit.’
Meanwhile, Elizabeth’s impatience spills out. ‘Ach, Jane! Dinna be daft. Dobbin’s wheels will only work on a smooth surface. He’ll get stuck anywhere else.’
‘In that case, why don’t we go in the car?’
‘There’s no room. Mum, Smithy and Mary will be in it with all the other stuff, whilst you and me should cut through the field.’ She shoves the basket towards me. ‘Jist take a half. Come on!’
The cups are heavy and we stop in the middle of the field for a rest. My garters feel tight, so I roll them down to my ankles; my stockings closely follow. The heart-breaking cry of a curlew rises above the distant roar of the millie at work.
‘That’s a terrible sad sound. Reminds me of someone lost in the mist in the moor.’
Elizabeth sighs and puts her hands on her hips. ‘Jane! It’s not likely to be today – not with this wind blowing about our ears.’ She glares at me. ‘Anyway, when were you ever lost in the moor?’
‘Oh, it’d be easy enough. The mist can creep up on you without anybody noticing. Happens anywhere. At sea, too.’ I clasp my hands and aim for a devout look. ‘Remember that terrible drowning accident somewhere near Nairn? It was that terrible Granny wouldn’t even talk about it. We’d to listen at the door to hear her speaking to her neighbours about it.’
My sister sniffs as she bends down to the basket. ‘I know and it was awful but it’s a fine day today so don’t you go spoiling it with tales of gloom and doom. Take your side and let’s go. They’ll all be waiting for us.’
She’s right. Dod’s already helping to take out a big, steaming kettle.
‘I tied that bow,’ says Elizabeth. She means the neat one tied to its handle. ‘I hope the tea comes out the right colour.’
As soon as Mum and company are ready, they shout above the din of the mill and the tractor whose belt is driving it. ‘Come on, folkies. It’s fly time!’ It comes in a chorus.
The quiet corn yard’s gone. It’s been replaced by something like a circus, with an army of hands attending the needs of the huge red monster that is the threshing mill. The tractor roars as if furious at being tethered to the mill by a belt, whilst the mill makes a whining noise as if complaining about being hungry.
There’s a slight figure at work on the top of it. The wind catching on her patterned headsquare makes it flap like a flag. She’s wearing dungarees, gumboots and something that looks like a glove in the hand holding so
mething sharp. A man on top of a stack spears a sheaf with a pitchfork and swings it to her. She bends over it, and with effortless ease slices the binding twine, then feeds the loosened sheaf into the mouth of the mill.
The sound changes to a groan as it gets to work, then the threshed grain drops into a sack whilst the straw, as gold as the day it was cut, lands on a waiting cart.
Ed, the mill owner, wears blue overalls and a red spotted hanky knotted so tightly round his neck it’s amazing he’s able to breathe. He switches off the tractor, then shouts, ‘Right, boys! Time fur oor fly!’
After all the machine racket, it’s so quiet, I point to the woman in the headsquare and whisper to Mary, ‘I thought it wis just mannies that wis helping.’
She smiles. ‘No, there’s us for a start, Janie, and that’s Kate. No millie would be the same without her. She’s the best louser in Dunphail.’
‘Aye – she fair knows how to use that knife,’ admires Elizabeth, who’s obviously lost her school voice. ‘An’ daen that at the top o’ the mill disna look very safe tae me.’
Whilst we hand out the cups, the mill hands gather round in neighbourly chat. It mingles with that of chirping sparrows and corn buntings. They haven’t been scared off by the machine’s racket and as they hop about our feet searching for dropped crumbs they sound as if they’re discussing local matters as well. Maybe they’re wondering where they’ll find shelter once the stacks have gone. Already minus two, the yard feels different.
‘You’re fair cracking on,’ says Mum as she pours out the tea. Remembering Mary’s description of it, I’m curious to see its colour, but the rich brown liquid’s nothing like the colour of tar. It’s a bit confusing when Ed takes a long sigh after the first swallow and says, ‘That’s a grand cup of tea. I like it black.’
Kate’s last to join the group. She jumps down in such an easy way I wonder if, with her confidence with heights, she’s ever thought about a circus career.
‘Aye, Kate, we were hashin’ ye a bittie,’ says one man, as she bites into a bannock. She laughs, showing white teeth in a wind-burnt face. ‘Ho! Ye’ll nivvir dae that. I can easy keep up wi’ ony bloke. Nay bother.’ She turns to Mum. ‘Yer gey hardy yersell. Hiv ye still that coorse bull?’ Her eyes are a sharp blue.