by Jane Yeadon
I’ve never heard of it but at least, unlike Miss Milne’s geography lessons, which involve whacking the wall map with her pointer and saying unpronounceable names, this one sounds local.
At length, Miss Milne says, ‘Right, Jane. You’re last.’
I approach the desk. My heart might be thumping but there’s been plenty time to rehearse the answer. Actually, I’m so prepared I don’t bother waiting for any question. Just as White-coat’s pen is poised over the page and before she’s opened her mouth or even looked up, I say as loudly as the new pupils, ‘Dunphail Home Farm.’
33
A TALE OF ANOTHER TIME
‘Are you sure?’ The eyes behind the rimless spectacles look kind, but puzzled.
I hold firm. Who needs a question when they’ve got an answer, and have I not heard that six times? I nod my head vigorously.
‘Oh well, then.’ After somewhat reluctantly writing Home Farm on the form, she says, ‘Now, could you go with Nurse next door, please? As you’re on your feet already, she’ll start with you first.’
Elizabeth, sitting at her desk in the front row, looks as if she’s trying to say something, but I’m already following the nurse out into the dining room. The weighing machine, with its high measuring gauge, has been pulled out from its usual place behind two wooden boxes full of library books. They’re occasionally delivered by a lady who wears a two-piece tweed suit and flat shoes. She’s got a thin face and beaky nose.
‘I bet she got that, having her nose stuck in ain o’ her books.’
When I asked Elizabeth could this be true, she said it would’ve been Alec’s idea of a joke.
The machine’s height lever is pulled down so quickly I’m in danger of being flattened. Then I’m weighed.
‘Uh huh,’ says the nurse non-committedly and records the details on a form, where I can see my name and Home Farm written under it. ‘Hands please,’ she continues, and demonstrates, holding hers out then turning them up and back again. I look closely at them. They’re very clean.
‘I see ye dinna bite yer nails,’ I offer.
She smiles. ‘No. I haven’t got a nervous disposition.’
Goodness! Wait till I tell Elizabeth. Wishing there’d been a chance to lick them cleaner before inspection, I show my hands.
‘Um,’ says the nurse, ‘I noticed none of you washed them after your playtime. And you’ve got sinks! So, be sure to wash them after as soon as we’re finished. Now, let’s have a look at your hair.’
‘Mum makes us wash it every Sunday night,’ I complain.
‘And quite right too,’ says the nurse, her eyes sharp as she examines my head. I’m aware that her searching fingers are lifting strands of my hair but they’re so light they hardly touch. ‘That’s fine,’ she finally allows. ‘Now, d’you see that chart on the far wall?’
She means a white board with rows of black squiggles. It’s so distant it’s hard enough to see, never mind anything written on it. Holding up a plain postcard, the nurse says, ‘I’m going to put this over one eye at a time and I’d like you to read out what you can see.’
I’m quite pleased to be able to make out the first two lines but, hard as I try, can’t progress. It’s useless squinting under the card to get my other eye into action because the nurse notices. She presses the card more closely, then, just as I’m about to protest, she swaps it over.
‘Let’s see how you get on with your other eye.’
The letters are only marginally clearer, but by now my eyes are protesting. They feel as if somebody’s stoking a fire behind my eyeballs. Eventually I give up trying to read anything. The silence is interrupted only by my heavy breathing.
‘Come on, Jane, just you take your time.’ The nurse says it in such a kindly way that to show cooperation I round off the session by throwing in any old letters.
‘Um,’ she says, clearly unimpressed. ‘Looks like you need specs. We’ll send your mother a letter. Ah! Here’s Doctor.’
White coat appears and explains that she wants to see my throat.
‘Say “Ah”,’ she says, flattening my tongue with a wooden spatula.
‘Aw.’
‘No! Ah!’ she perseveres.
So do I, and on behalf of every other Dunphail pupil. ‘It’s jist the way we aw say it, Awww!’
She nods in a resigned way. ‘Right. Thanks for the elocution lesson. Now, Nurse here tells me that your eyesight’s not very good. What I wonder is, have you had measles?’ She poises a pen above my form.
‘Yes, and yon pink stuff cried Calamine Lotion disna work,’ I tell her, although I don’t mention the frightening sight of the larch witches getting ever closer until Mum shut the window-blind.
I’m about to launch into the horrors of having chicken pox, which has an even worse itch, when she marks the paper, gives a faint dismissive smile. ‘That’s fine. You can go now.’
Just as I head out the door, the nurse says, ‘Don’t worry if anybody asks if you’ve been crying. They’re only red because you’ve been straining them.’
When I get back to the classroom, little James takes one look at me and starts to lick his lips and drum his fingers on the desk.
‘Your turn now, James,’ says Miss Milne.
If he hadn’t been so snooty about taking me on as his bus conductress, I could have told him about eye-strain, but he’s soon back and practically skipping.
‘Easy and the doctor says I’m right good at saying, “Ah”,’ he boasts but pipes down when it appears that his pin-up girl’s sight’s not good either.
Miss Milne’s been told about it. To our disgust, she immediately springs in to action. ‘Right, Elizabeth, I suppose, like me, you wouldn’t have known that there was a problem because you’re so near the blackboard, but, you, Jane,’ she eyes me speculatively, ‘you don’t pay that much attention to it anyway. The best thing for you is to come and share a desk with your sister.’
Hearing her sigh, she adds, ‘Well, at least until you’re both seen by the optician. And as for you, Jane, I think you’re fine without Moira’s help now. Anyway, she’s got her own work to do. Before she goes to Forres Academy next year, she’ll have to sit the Control exam.’
I don’t know why but at the mention of the word the older pupils groan and Miss Milne reacts as she does until she snaps out, ‘You can moan as much as you like but every eleven-year-old has to sit it before they leave for secondary education.’ Her eyes blaze. ‘And if you don’t do well in it, you’ll be put into a low class and rue it for the rest of your lives.’
Alec’s hand shoots up and, before she can stop him, he says, ‘Please, Miss, my sister didn’t get into the top class but she gets cooking and typing and she says the boys get woodwork and they’re all really useful skills.’
‘With a head like yours, Alec,’ Miss Milne says dryly, ‘you’d want to be careful.’ She looks pleased with this remark. Ignoring a sotto voce mentioning Jesus’s carpentry skills, she turns her attention back to me. ‘You seem to be managing your reading and sums all right, and now that you’re near me I can keep an eye on you and you’ll have to pay attention.’ Then she unfairly adds, ‘I know you waste a lot of time dreaming.’
It’s been an especially long day and the wretched donkey song, which hasn’t much a tune to it, has stabled itself in my brain and it’s all I can hear as, giving up on singing, marching and galloping, I trudge home. Tombain might now be visible, but it’s still a half-mile away. Nearer is Mrs Munro, who’s waiting at the roadside.
‘I wis looking to hear ye singing,’ she says, ‘but you’d stopped. Maybe your throat’s gone dry.’ She looks at me closely. ‘You look awful warm. What about coming in for a piece and a drink o’ water?’
Even if her voice is old and croaky, her step is light and nimble, especially after swapping her tackety-boots for gym shoes.
‘Come awa’ in,’ she says, leading the way.
Her house is much the same as Lala and Mrs Bremner’s, except that the kitchen, facing th
e entrance, is a separate, if tiny, room. Instead of a tap, and standing on the stone floor, there’s an enamel pail. It’s covered with muslin and when she takes it off I see water, light brown in colour. The kitchen dresser is tall, thin and made of metal. It’s painted the same shade of blue as the rim of the white mug which my hostess lifts out from one of the cupboard compartments. With a quick movement, she scoops water from the pail.
Handing over the brimming mug, she says, ‘Straight fae the burn! Now, you go ben to the living room whilst I mak’ you a piece.’
Despite the sun streaming through the little window beside the oil-covered table, peats glow in the pipe-clayed fireplace. They throw out such a heat I take the furthermost chair at the table. The mug feels cold on my lips and the water slides down, soothing my parched throat with the same effect as an icicle. She’s right about it being burn water. I recognise its peaty, soft flavour.
‘My! But you were thirsty.’ Mrs Munro, carrying a buttered slice of bread in her hand, puts it on the table. ‘You’ll soon be ready to give me a song, but have this first.’
She takes a chair, wiping her hands on her cross-over pinafore. ‘So, what did you learn at the school the day?’
I tell her about the nurse and doctor.
‘We didna hiv sic fowk in my young day an’ if ye needed a doctor, ye’d tae pay for it. Mind you, Janie, I wisna long in school.’ She taps her chest. ‘But I wis learned tae work very young. I hid tae. You see my father died when my youngest brother was three weeks old.’
‘That must’ve been terrible. You’d hae been like ma mither.’
Mrs Munro holds up four fingers, ‘Aye, only my ain had twice as many bairns.’
‘Four! What did she do?’
‘Well, she’d have hid tae pit us in the poor hoose whilst she’d tae look for work. Her first job wis spreading mole heaps wi’ a shovel. She couldna afford shoes, so she worked bare-fitted.’
You can stop complaining right now. I send the message to my feet, although I kind of envy Mrs Munro her tackety-boots. It would be fun getting sparks off them going along the road. It might make it seem shorter.
‘Mind you, things did get better after a whiley,’ continued Mrs Munro. ‘There wis a hairst and the men that worked the place were awful decent and so that ma mither had no broken time, for ye see she’d no get paid for that, they used tae tak’ her tae the barn for tae mak’ straw ropes.’
The old lady gets up, rubs her back, puts another peat on the fire, then continues, ‘The way they made straw ropes was a thing called a thaw crook. It had a great long iron spike and was fastened roon the waist wi’ rope. The men paid oot the straw as if they were putting wool on a spindle and then ma mither twisted and twisted till she made a rope.
‘They were grand and strong. They had to be, for they were used tae tie doon the stacks.’
The storyteller finishes in triumph: ‘Nae Glesga Jock in those days!’
Her tale, care and hardy spirit keep me company so that I reach Tomdow before knowing it. Now that the ash tree has lost all its leaves, it’s easy to fancy that its bare and tortured-shaped branches are like a page out of a witch’s spellbook. It’s much harder to imagine barefoot women working in the fields. How tough that must have been and almost as difficult to believe as the old Tomdow cottage offering riotous behaviour within its stone walls.
Now, there’s more of them piled up outside alongside a heap of broken wooden lathes and the cladding that used to cover them. The house has been left an empty shell with the Guinness sign, like a mockery of its past, lying on its side, cracked and skewed against the gable wall.
A gust of wind, disturbing the builder’s rubble, blows grit into my eyes.
‘Maybe what you saw was a thirsty ghost or maybe it was just your reflection.’
I remember Dod’s words as, eyes stinging, I try to wipe years of grime off the mirror, then haul it round so that it stands vertically.
We don’t have any long mirrors in Tombain, so I’m not used to seeing a whole figure. The solemn person peering back is a surprise. Even if there’s a late sun, which catches the house gable end, warming it momentarily, the mirror, with its lettering, seems to stay as dark as the contents of the Guinness glass in the advertisement.
As I wave, I turn my head, frightened in case there’s no returning signal, then make for home.
It’s a surprise to be met at the bottom of our road by both Elizabeth and Mum. ‘We’ve been worried about you!’ says Mum. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
I’m unsure where the conversation might lead and toy with the idea of telling them that Mrs Munro dragged me into her house and forced water and bread down my reluctant throat. But I can’t really, so I turn to Elizabeth and say, ‘You must’ve passed when I was at Mrs Munro’s.’ I aim for a martyred tone, ‘She was sorry for me because I looked so wearied and she took me in, fed and watered me.’
‘Well, that was very kind of her. I hope you remembered to thank her,’ says Mum in a half-cross kind of way. ‘And now I don’t suppose you’ll any have room left for your tea.’ She exchanges a look with Elizabeth and they share that annoying, amused grown-up smile before she adds, ‘But it’s good you’re back. Your sister and I were beginning to think you might have moved to a different address.’
34
CHANGING TIMES
‘He’s getting so helpless, Mam’s no going to manage him much longer.’
There’s a debate going on in the kitchen, which lightens the boredom of washing dishes in the scullery. As I’m on my own, it’s easier to keep crockery sounds to a minimum whilst listening hard.
Meg, one of Dod’s sisters, is in full flight. There’s a big Bremner family who regularly visit and are all concerned about Lala. However, Meg hasn’t quite the same family commitments, so she’s come to stay a while, see how her parents are managing and if she can help. Unfortunately, she’s finding that her mother’s strongly put independence makes that difficult.
Venting her frustration to Mum and Dod, Meg says, ‘Of course, she’s no getting any younger herself, as well you know. And then when we got the doctor to visit and he eventually came, he examined Father right enough . . . and he did seem a bit worried.’ Meg’s voice rises. ‘But then he asked Mam how she was. Well! She banged her chest and said, “Hear that, Doctor? Sound as a bell.”’ Meg continues exasperatedly, ‘Then, the minute he left, what d’you think she said?’
Dod’s wearied; ‘I can jist imagine’ is lost to something resembling a salvo, as Meg snaps, ‘She’d the neck to say, “The doctor didna even look at me!”’
I knew the tattie pit hasn’t been visited by Lala for a while, but I supposed it was because it’s empty and must be waiting for our new crop to be picked. Then I think about Nell. Now Lala hardly bothers to put his hand down to either stroke or annoy her, and seems so locked into his own world that Mrs Bremner’s started to feed and shave him. Much as she’s handy with an axe, she’s not so smart with the cut-throat razor. As well as that, his black suit’s getting peppered with little burnt holes. Someday soon he’s going to have to stop smoking that pipe.
‘If she’s not there, he could set fire to himself,’ Meg goes on. ‘So she’s got that to worry about as well. It’s no wonder she’s exhausted, but will she let on?’
‘Parkinson’s is a terrible disease and bad enough,’ Mum says in a heartfelt way, ‘but if we’re not careful, we’ll have two invalids.’
Dod’s equally anxious. ‘I ken that. I wis helping Mither ower a fence the ither day, an’ she wis as light as a feather. There’s nothing o’ her. We’ll have tae dae something.’
I make the mistake of rattling the cups. The voices drop and there’s nothing more to be heard. Afterwards, I tell Elizabeth about the conversation but all she says is, ‘Nobody ever tells us anything important. It’s no wonder we try to lug in. It’s a pity the telephone’s so expensive to use. At least when Mum and Dod are talking on it, they can’t stop us from listening.’
‘
We can’t do that with Mrs Bremner,’ I chuckle. ‘If it rings when Mum and Dod are out and she’s looking after us, as soon as she picks it up, she puts it down again.’
On a weekend a couple of weeks later, Elizabeth and I, feeling like outsiders, watch from our kitchen window. There’s a big collection of the Bremner family milling around the old house. They’ve come to help Lala and Mrs Bremner move to an old folk’s home in Nairn. All but Mrs Bremner, unfamiliar in a black coat, look grim. Surprisingly, she practically skips into a waiting car. Lala, as grey as the day’s sky, supported by two helpers, is taken out of the house to join her.
Preparing to leave and make sure that they arrive at their new home safely, Dod says to Mum, ‘We ken Balblair wis once the poor hoose but it’s got beds and folk that’ll care for the old boy. It’s the best we can dae but dinna ony o’ ye bother comin’ oot tae say cheerio. It’ll mebbe cause an upset. Ye’ll see them once they’re settled in.’
Although he might not have meant it as such, he’s right about the once. After our first visit to this home, Elizabeth and I won’t make another one.
Still, when we do go, we’re met by Mrs Bremner, who looks well. She’s wearing the flower-sprigged overall she has for best and greets us cheerfully at the front door of a place built on the same stark lines as our school, but much bigger.
‘Lala’s in the mannies’ wing,’ she says. ‘I’m nay sure if he likes it there but they keep him bonny and clean and they’re never done polishing the floor.’ She adds in a pleased way, ‘I like to feel useful so I gie them a hand.’ She stretches one out, twiddling less swollen fingers, and gives a little smile. ‘See? Nay hacks on them either.’
Dod shows her the sore scores in his own hands. ‘Mebbe I should move in here wi’ you.’
‘You widna be as handy,’ she says. ‘Jist stick tae visiting Lala. He’ll be pleased to see ye but I’ll not come wi’ ye. I’m helping them here tae pit oot the wifies’ tea in their ward.’