by Jane Yeadon
The distant clatter of Mrs Haggarty washing the dinner dishes in the canteen stops and she waves a dishcloth at us.
‘Parlez!’ We shout, reading it as a flag-bearing peace sign.
It’s more than can be said for the toll of Miss Milne’s bell, telling us that time’s up and fun’s over.
29
A HARVEST THANKSGIVING
You wouldn’t think that our church had been built in 1741. It doesn’t look old, but the graveyard surrounding it on three sides does. It’s got some stones so ancient the lettering on their flat table-like tops is outlined in green moss. The same shade of emerald growth thrives at the base of equally timeworn but upright stones weathered into the colour of lizard-wear.
Less simple, and with lettering written on it in a way that Miss Milne would love, is Kopuri Tom’s stone. It’s directly opposite the church door entrance and stands out because of its oddly light colour.
We’re waiting beside it until Mum and Dod finish the not particularly harmonious business of parking our car.
‘There’ll be a big congregation today,’ Dod had said. ‘I’ll jist park the car beside the coo’ shed. It’s a pity the Glebe’s farm buildings are so near the church. They dinna leave cars wi an awful lot of room.’
‘As long as we leave room for the cow to get in, but mind that wall, Dod, and, bairns, you’d best get out now and wait for us outside the church.’ As Dod revved the engine, Mum closed her eyes.
‘It looks as if someone’s painted the stone and it’s beginning to flake,’ Elizabeth says, then points to the top of the stone. ‘That’s a bit like the design on the back of Mum’s bonny silver mirror. I asked her about it one day and she said it’s something they call art nouveau.’ Her finger follows the wavy line of something carved underneath. It looks like a small branch with stars instead of leaves. ‘See that? The stem forms the first letter of In Memory.’
‘I canna read capital letters yet, so what do these ones say?’ I mean the words underneath Tom’s name.
‘He died in 1877 at Relugas House. Remember yon big house at the top of the village? And it says he was a faithful servant and attached.’ She frowns. ‘I wonder what that means. Anyway, he came from somewhere called Rotumah. It’s in the South Pacific. I bet that’s forever away. We’ll need to look at the map when we’re back in school.’
‘It must be terrible dying so far away from home,’ I say, my hand over my heart and looking skyward for any sign of Tom.
‘Ach, Jane!’ she says, turning on her heel and ramming her beret over her ears. ‘Come on. Here’s Mum and Dod.’
Headwear must be a sign of good, humble and church-going souls, but I don’t really understand why the men on entering the church take off their hats and we don’t. I wish we did. Mine feels like a band of steel clamped round my forehead. It’s one of the reasons I’m glad we don’t often have to come to church. We already get plenty Bible stuff from Granny. Today, however, thanks to Miss Milne’s musical endeavours, I’m looking forward, at least, to singing about ploughing fields at today’s Harvest Thanksgiving.
Mum’s quite enthusiastic about it too. ‘It’s a special one in all farmers’ calendars,’ she says. ‘And we should thank God we’ve managed to get it in before Christmas.’
Elizabeth grins. ‘And of course, Mum, you get a chance for a blether with pals as well.’
‘That too.’
Our church may be the same Church of Scotland as Granny’s one, but this one’s built on smaller, simpler lines. It’s got such a comfortable feel that if anyone was alone in this place and heard something creak, I bet they wouldn’t be scared. The natural light let in by tall if narrow windows shows up the burnt-orange colour of the pine-made pews and pulpit. There’s huge silver-coloured pipes above an organ which was donated by one of Dunphail’s benefactors. It’s played by the minister’s wife, but meanwhile it’s silent. The sound of the nearby Divie river, with its eternal song as it rushes past the cemetery to join the Dorback, then River Findhorn, makes a sweet alternative.
Only the occasional visiting grandee sits upstairs. Apparently, anybody else using it’s considered to have fancy ideas. I’m curious to find out what it’s like to look down on the minister and the folk below. Seeing hats from a different angle could be fun, but I suppose that Andy Milne wouldn’t let me past the first stair-step. He’s the church beadle and, as well as checking who goes upstairs, he looks after the minister, the entrance and the collection plate. He’s also Mary’s dad and she worries a lot about him because his chest can be even wheezier than the church organ.
We sit at the back. From it, I can look up and out the window onto a yew tree, its branches so dense no witch could possibly get in to ride on any of them. When Andy comes in, it’s more interesting. He wears a grey suit and walks slowly and reverentially whilst carrying a huge Bible. Despite its weight, his damaged lungs and the winding stairs up to the pulpit, he makes it with great dignity. There he places the Bible on the lectern. His descent is slow. Then he returns, and with the same measured tread carries a glass of water. Once it’s put alongside the Bible, and Andy’s back at floor level, the minister appears. After he’s in the pulpit, he sits down and Andy closes a small gate after him. Perhaps he’s frightened he might escape.
The minister’s a big man in a black flowing robe. Maybe it’s because he looks a bit like a friendly spectacled crow that I think he hasn’t his beadle’s presence: today, especially. There’s usually plenty room for him in the enclosed pulpit space, but he’s squashed in between golden sheaves flanking him on either side of the seat.
He tugs at the gown folds like someone seeking tidiness, then he stands up, rests his hands on the sides of the lectern and looks down at us. I hold my breath, wondering if a careless sweep of the gown could send the glass of water, so near to the Bible, flying. It’s enough to give him my complete attention.
Raising dark beetling eyebrows and looking through his black-rimmed spectacles, he starts. ‘Welcome, everybody, and may I say how gladdened I am to see such a wonderful harvest of God’s food and so many gathered here to give thanks for it.’
The congregation’s unusual size must be as pleasing as having a church transformed by the mixed smells and colours of harvested fare, home bakes and assorted jars of jams. They’re prominently displayed on trestle tables and make for a rich show in a normally plain setting.
Miss Milne’s dressed in a smart but funereal black suit, whilst Miss May could be going to a wedding in frilly pink. They’re sitting on the opposite side from us and a few pews in front. I wonder if, having sent us all home with so many of their home-grown apples and pears, were any left for this festival. There’s certainly enough here to fill the baskets and bowls not already teeming with raspberries, gooseberries and blackcurrants.
After the minister announces the first hymn, there’s a short lull. Mum manages to fit in a wee blether about parish affairs to her neighbour, and Dod finds out the latest way to get rid of a mole infestation whilst the minister’s wife gets ready. With the care and attention of a motorist coaxing an engine to start, she pulls buttons, presses switches and moves her feet over the organ pedals in such a way you might think she was about to drive off. She straightens up, gives her husband a nod, then, looking straight ahead, spreads her fingers. With a great blast, the music peals out.
‘We plough the fields and scatter,’ we sing, and, naturally, as I fill my lungs for the next line, my sister jabs me hard.
All that practice at school and now I’ve been shut up! I persevere, but eventually, when things begin to verge on violence, I give up. Bored, I snatch a glimpse of a plaque on the wall behind us. I’ve heard Mum and Dod discussing it.
‘It’s been pit on squint,’ Dod observed. ‘If I wis looking steady at it, I’d get cross-eyed.’
‘True. And even if it’s a nice enough thing to commemorate a minister who served our parish for thirty-seven years of the last century, I can’t think why anybody would have thought to spoil the bonny white mar
ble with yon two pink columns of granite flanking it. I’m sorry but, to me, they regrettably resemble fatty sausage meat,’ said Mum.
The thought of food’s made me hungry. Despite my sister, I manage to join in the final chorus.
‘Then thank the Lord, O thank the Lord, for all his love.’
As we sit down, I eye the food around us, whilst there’s a discreet rustle of paper bags. Pandrop time! I wish Dod hadn’t kept his in his pocket. The ones he slips us are covered in fluff.
I’m sure that the sight of the entire congregation suddenly hiding their mouths to slide in their pandrops doesn’t fool the minister. Either that or he must think that there’s been a sudden all-embracing outbreak of gumboils, with the occasional relocation to the other cheek. Toffee is out. The pandrop is something to be sucked and savoured. Any other way of eating it would be a mark of disrespect.
The minister leans forward, scans us, then says, ‘Now, boys and girls. Today is a special one and I’ve a little story to tell you.’
In case it’s not that little, I suck through the fluff very slowly. Elizabeth and I are wearing our heavy coats, which are as uncomfortable to sit on as the Bremner’s horsehair sofa. My beret’s advancing over my eyebrows and getting tighter by the minute. I shove it back up, squirm, sigh, fiddle with the coat buttons and slide down the pew in a bid to see how far I can get before my foot reaches the pew in front.
There’s a strong smell of mothballs from the black overcoats of men sitting beside womenfolk, splendid in two-piece costumes and fine hats. Disappointingly, the glass of water’s still in place and the minister isn’t half as good a storyteller as Granny.
‘Did you know that Bethlehem means house of bread?’ he says, pausing for a moment. I hope he’s not looking for anyone to reply. In my experience, getting it wrong’s as bad as not having an answer.
Eyes down. Shoes suddenly a fascinating sight. Breath held. Pandrop sucking on hold. Silence grows. Phew! He’s moved on, but my garters are telling me they’re too tight so loudly, I lose the drift of the story. Some trouble with no bread, a nice girl called Ruth helping an older lady called Naomi and asking somebody called Boaz for help.
My ears prick up at the one familiar name. Mary’s brother’s called Boswell – but it’s Bose for short.
‘Ruth impressed him so much by her kindness, he offered to marry her,’ continues the minister. ‘So, with the corn safely gathered in, there was a great feast to celebrate both that and Ruth and Boaz’s wedding.’ He snatches a glance at his watch. ‘Remember, children, we must always be grateful and celebrate whatever food we have that’s on our table. Amen.’
‘Well, quines, what did you take from the minister’s story about Ruth and Boaz?’ asks Mum on our way home.
Elizabeth frowns, pulls off her beret and nibbles a nail. ‘A hard life’s one thing, but having a famine as well . . . now that must be awful.’
‘Poor Ruth! Imagine not even being able to have a jammy piece,’ I say. ‘Still, Boaz was a nice man. D’you think he was called after Mary’s brother?’
30
A BIRD AND A BIKE
I didn’t think it at the time, but yesterday morning seems like a lifetime of happiness away.
‘I’m in terrible trouble,’ I whisper to Rabbit, ‘Any minute now, the police are going to call.’
There’s a rattle on the bedroom door.
‘That’s maybe them now.’
‘Ssh!’ he croons. ‘Pretend you’re dead.’
I dive under the bedclothes, which Mum immediately lifts. She raises her eyebrows and frowns. ‘What are you doing under there? Your sister’s been up for ages. Did you not hear me calling?’
‘I’m far too ill to go to school.’
She shakes her head and snaps, ‘You look as fine to me as the morning you said you couldn’t put a foot out of bed. I was that worried I got the doctor to come out all the way from Forres to see you. The minute he arrived, I never saw such a rapid recovery. I was fair affronted at such a waste of his time. So!’ There’s no milk of human kindness in her voice. ‘You don’t fool me, Janie. Up!’
These days I walk to school on my own. The road stretches long, wearying and dreary without Kenny’s gentle company. He’s gone with his family to another farm. We’re unsure why: an argument between Dod and their dad perhaps. We don’t ask. Questions seem to make everybody shirty at the best of times, but especially just now, with byre improvements making life on the farm busier than usual.
‘I’ll be glad when the work’s over,’ said Mum. ‘The chaps putting in the damp course work really hard, but it’s fair putting the beasts off their stot. Charlotte in particular’s upset at being milked away from her usual stance.’
Our loft hasn’t changed but play there has. We miss Violet.
‘I don’t know why you two can’t just get on,’ sighs Mum. ‘You never seem happier than when you’re fighting.’
We look at each other in astonishment. ‘We’re not fighting,’ we tell her. ‘We just have the occasional wee argument.’
‘There’s times,’ says our loving mother, ‘that I’m delighted you can argue to your hearts’ content when you’re away from here and at school.’
Clearly there’s no other option than to get up and go there but remembering yesterday and my original brainwave, I’ve a sick feeling.
‘I’m going to ask the mannies working on the byre if one o’ them will give me a lift in their lorry to school,’ I’d said to Elizabeth. ‘If any of them say they will, would you like to come too?’ I was rather hoping she’d say yes, but all she did was sniff and call me a softie.
‘It’s all very well for you, Elizabeth, but you’ve a bike!’
‘Yes, but I walked before then and I never complained. You’re always moaning.’
I didn’t hold this conversation against her. When a kindly lorry driver took me to school and we sailed past her, I gave her a very nice smile and a wave.
‘I think she’s waving back at you but with her fist,’ laughed the lorry driver, checking on his mirror.
In the playground, the morning started well enough with the surprise appearance of Davy Munro’s jackdaw. It too had cadged a lift – but on his owner’s bike. Now it was flying round the playground.
‘It’s nay just the bike,’ said Davy. ‘He canna pass a Fergie but he wants a hurl on it.’ With affection, he watched the bird, which looked up from doing a worm check for a second, then carried on foraging. ‘He’s affa good at catching leather-jackets. He’s a real pest controller.’
‘Like Miss Milne,’ said one wag. ‘I wonder what she’ll say when she sees him.’
Davy laughed and pointed in the general direction of his home. ‘Och, Jake’s nay need for schoolin’ an’ he kens far he bides. He’ll mak’ his ain way back.’ He clapped his hands. The bird, bright-eyed, looked up in an enquiring way.
‘Off home, Jakey!’
As the bird soared into the air, Miss Milne appeared with the bell.
Following her into school, James licked his lips and pulled his stockings up to his thin knees. ‘Ah wish ah wis that bird an’ could fly away. Teacher doesn’t look in a very good mood,’ he said.
‘Och, James, just keep you head down an’ your sums right. Anyway, she’s all right with you,’ comforted Elizabeth. ‘An’ you know you’re always saying you want to be a bus driver when you grow up?’ Encouraged by James’s attempt to smile, she continued, ‘Well, I’m sure that’s the next best thing to flying. Stick in with your lessons and before you know it you’ll be hurling along the highways. Think! You’ll be full throttle driving a bus jam-packed with passengers. Now, that’s something to look forward to, isn’t it?’
Not to be outdone by my sister’s kindness, I put in, ‘And I could be your bus conductress.’
James sniffed. ‘I wouldna want you. I’d rather have Lizzie.’
Once the morning was underway and we were all, she hoped, usefully employed, Miss Milne took up her usual stance against the radiat
or. Occasionally she’d drag her eyes away from the room to sneak a glance out of the window, but then something riveted her.
‘Good gracious!’
She was so gripped, she didn’t notice us all getting up and standing on our toes to see out too.
There’s a lately harvested field across from the school. Once we were in the classroom, ploughing work must have started. A few straight brown furrows showed good progress, however something must have happened to make the plough veer off-course; the driver seemed agitated by something small and black.
‘Hey, look!’ cried someone. ‘That bird’s dive-bombing the tractor mannie.’
‘Uh, that’s Jake! Did I no’ tell ye he canna resist Fergies? He’s only trying to cadge a lift, but he’ll no’ like the mannie’s flapping arms,’ muttered Davy.
‘David, you need to go and sort out that bird,’ said Miss Milne, who has excellent hearing. ‘And see that you apologise to the tractor man. The poor soul must have had an awful fright.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Right, class. Back to work. That’s enough excitement for the day.’
But it wasn’t. Just as Davy went to sort out Jake, Mrs Haggarty arrived. The door was open and she spoke from it. She usually looks and sounds so cheerful; it was a shock to see her worried face.
‘Excuse me, Miss Milne. I’ve just spoken to Miss May and she’s suggested I have a word with you and the bairns.’ She leant on the door lintel. ‘I’m fair worried. You see, my bike’s gone. I can’t think where it could be and I’m wondering if anybody here’s seen it.’
Miss Milne looked shocked. ‘That’s terrible. And it’s your only way of getting about, too.’ With a welcoming gesture, she continued, ‘Don’t stand there. Please come in!’
Anybody coming to the door always gets our undivided attention and usually gives us a welcome respite from our work. Then, if the caller’s invited into the classroom, we’ve all to stand up as a mark of courtesy. But it’s a bit different with Mrs Haggarty. Considering her more part of our school family than a visitor, only half of us got to our feet.