Turn of the Tide

by Skea, Margaret

  ‘Someone who can’t get up because they’re sick.’

  ‘But you’re not sick?’

  ‘No. I’m not sick.’ Sybilla pulled herself up in the bed. ‘But you’ll have to move else I won’t be able to get up and will have to pretend that I am.’ She caught Maggie round the waist and tipped her onto her side rolling her towards the edge of the bed. Maggie squealed and wriggled and Sybilla, rolling with her, misjudged the distance so that they both ended up in a heap on the floor, the bedspread trailed between them.

  She disentangled herself and, setting Maggie on her feet, clambered onto her knees.

  ‘It’s glad I am to see you start the day so holy,’ Kate poked her head around the door. ‘But if it’s breakfast you’re wanting you’ll need to hurry. Robbie is already in the stables supervising the saddling of the horses. With the children we can’t make the same pace. Maggie rides with her father but Robbie has his own Sheltie and, though game enough, it isn’t built for speed.’

  ‘Is it the kirk in town you make for?’ Sybilla stepped into her corset and turned her back to Kate, grabbing the bedpost with both hands as Kate pulled on the strings.

  ‘It’s been repaired and we have a new minister.’ Kate released the cords a fraction; then knotted them securely. ‘I’d better not tie you so tight that you can’t sing.’

  ‘What like is he?’ Sybilla shook out the worsted wool skirt of her riding habit and picked at furring on the left panel, where the cloth had balled with rubbing against the saddle.

  ‘Gey fond of the psalms and with such a fine voice is precentor and preacher both.’ Kate was straightening the bedcovers, an odd, uncertain note in her voice. ‘He came newly from St Andrews and, whatever else folk may say, he has a way with words. He speaks for an hour or more and it seems but minutes and all without a crib sheet.’

  ‘Some folk don’t like him?’

  ‘He isn’t always easy listening and times when he looks straight at you, it’s as if he sees into your soul. There are those that don’t take to the fire in him, or maybe it’s that he hits too close to home.’ She gave a final tug to the bed curtains, looping them back against the posts. ‘I can’t help but like him, for all that listening I feel this small inside.’ She held up her hand, the finger and thumb an inch apart. ‘We have had a naming and a burying and he made a fine job of both and I have no doubt that he’ll marry you right. They were halfway down the stair when she said, ‘Mary fair took to him; he didn’t miss to visit her every week at the end and gave her right comfort. She died well, and I know it was his doing. I have thought since . . . he has such certainty . . . I envy him that.’ She broke off, ‘If we get a move on, you’ll have a chance to hear for yourself.’

  It was well past noon, and though strands of cloud like carded wool streaked the sky, there was enough sun to give welcome warmth as they filed out of the church. James Melville stood at the door, nodding to, or perhaps, Sybilla thought, counting his parishioners. She chided herself for such uncharitability. His straight blond hair and pale face, with just the hint of a shadow around his jaw, gave him the appearance of extreme youth. He had indeed spoken well, if well was to make those who listened shuffle their feet and focus their eyes firmly on the floor, the plain-raftered ceiling, the dust motes dancing in the narrow shafts of light arrowing through the window slits; anywhere except on Melville’s sharp eyes, their colour the piercing blue of a rain-washed sky. Evidence to Sybilla, if her own feelings were anything to go by, of inward squirming. Forbye Agnes, who had remained at Broomelaw to look to Ellie, the whole household was there and Melville ducked his head to each in turn.

  Maggie wriggled her way to tug at the wide sleeve of his gown, her small face creased into a frown. He patted her bonnet.

  ‘Why was Jesus an auntie?’

  Robbie choked and Sybilla bent her head, as if to quiet him, stifling her own laugh. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kate suck on her cheeks as she too struggled for composure.

  Melville tilted Maggie’s face upwards. ‘What do you mean child?’

  ‘You said ‘Auntie-Christ’.’

  Sybilla saw that Melville’s eyes also twinkled, though his face was grave.

  ‘I’m glad to see that you paid attention.’ He kept his grip on Maggie’s chin. ‘Though sorry I am that I wasn’t clearer in my discourse. It isn’t ‘auntie’, like ‘uncle’. This kind of ‘Anti’ means opposite. So . . .’ He looked at each of the children in turn.

  Robbie lifted his head. ‘Anti-Christs are gey bad?’

  Over the top of his head Melville smiled at Kate. He touched Robbie’s head. ‘As bad as ever you could imagine.’

  Agnes bustled to greet them as they came through the gate and handed a grizzling Ellie over to Kate. ‘I have given her broth and a wee bit bread and cheese, but it’s milk she’s wanting. It’s as well the lunch will keep.’

  ‘We were a mite delayed. Maggie . . .’

  ‘Thought Jesus was an Auntie.’ Robbie was hopping from foot to foot, pointing at her.

  She flew at him, eyes flashing.

  ‘A perfectly reasonable mistake.’ Munro swung her up into the air, shooting a warning glance at Robbie. When Agnes continued to look puzzled, he said, ‘We have been right through the Epistle of John. And are well-warned not to fall for Anti-Christs.’

  Seeing Maggie’s deepening frown, Agnes turned her own laugh into a cough.

  Munro tightened his grip as Maggie tried to wriggle free. ‘We aren’t laughing at you, sweetheart.’

  Sybilla mouthed to Archie, ‘Lying to the bairn and only out of the kirk . . .’ so that he too took a fit of coughing.

  Munro brought his face close to Maggie’s and pretended to nuzzle her neck. ‘But I am hungry . . . maybe I’ll just have to eat . . .’ He slapped his lips together noisily, nibbling on her ear until she squealed, then set her down. ‘No? Well then, lunch will have to do instead.’

  Had it not been for the children, they would have stayed close to home all afternoon, the adults content to sit behind the barmkin wall, which gave protection from the light easterly wind, allowing them to enjoy the sunshine. As it was, they managed to steal half an hour of idleness, courtesy of Ellie sleeping sound in the chamber above the solar, while Maggie rooted around for worms at the edge of the vegetable patch and Robbie was occupied with whittling the bark from a hazel switch.

  ‘The beauty of the Sabbath . . .’ Sybilla slid her feet from her shoes and stretched them into a patch of sunlight, wiggling her toes against her fine wool stockings.

  ‘Besides the hearing of the Word?’ Archie opened one eye.

  She paid no apparent heed to his interruption, nor to his finger teasing her collarbone, but directed her conversation at Kate. ‘The beauty of it is to do nothing at all and yet be virtuous.’

  ‘Enjoy it while you can.’ Robbie had disappeared and Kate cocked her head towards the stable, ‘With bairns, ‘nothing’ generally turns into ‘something’ quicker than you might wish.’

  ‘They’re quiet the now.’ Sybilla leaned back against the wall, tilting her face up to the sun.

  ‘Aye, well,’ Kate yawned. ‘That’s when you need to worry. It isn’t always wise to leave them to their own devices over long.’

  ‘The devil finds mischief . . .’ Archie’s mimicry of Mary was so accurate that Munro, who had been drowsing, startled upright.

  ‘Don’t worry, she hasn’t come back to haunt us.’

  They were all laughing: harder and longer than the joke warranted; so that Sybilla guessed that though it had been more than a year since Anna’s death, laughter was a rare commodity still.

  Robbie appeared, leading his Shetland pony, already saddled. He was a shaggy little beast, tufts of mud-brown, winter coat still protruding at random between the smooth patches that Robbie had brushed to a shine.

  ‘Aunt Sybilla hasn’t seen the glen.’ Robbie tossed the remark like a pebble into a pool, waiting for the ripple of reaction.

  ‘Neither she has,’ Munro
kept his face straight.

  ‘And you can’t work.’ Robbie made a caricature of the minister. ‘Not on the Sabbath.’

  ‘Neither I can.’

  Sybilla thought Munro would be able to outstare Robbie, but wouldn’t have bet so much as a bawbee on it. Maggie appeared around the corner of the tower, her fist tightly curled. Unwilling to go round the pony, she curved herself into a ball and squeezed underneath the sagging belly, unrolling in an explosion of petticoats at Sybilla’s knee.

  ‘I want to go.’

  ‘Go where?’ Munro was clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘With him.’ Maggie uncurled her fist to point at Robbie. ‘Oh.’ Her lip trembled as she looked at the worm that dangled from her palm, squashed and lifeless.

  Sybilla put her arm around Maggie and pulled her in close.

  ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’ Maggie bit down hard on her lip.

  ‘Worms don’t feel.’ Sybilla hoped she sounded confident. She poked Maggie in the side, pressing on her ribs. ‘You need bones to feel.’ Peeling the worm from Maggie’s hand, she stood up. ‘If we put it on the wall, it’ll be food for the birds.’ She tried to think of a way to make it, if not right, at least better. ‘Maybe even for your sparrow, while she builds her new nest.’ She stretched the worm out. ‘It’s gey long and will make a fine meal.’

  Maggie was smiling again, ‘There were lots.’ She tugged at Sybilla, ‘We could get more.’

  ‘If you wish to stay . . .’ Munro tossed the comment to Maggie as he checked the saddle of Robbie’s pony. ‘We can leave you with Sybilla while the rest of us have a wee jaunt to the glen.’

  Feeling Maggie stiffen and seeing her face begin to crumple, Sybilla gave her another squeeze. ‘He doesn’t mean it. We are all to go, and you . . .’ she swung Maggie up in the air and set her on Archie’s shoulder, ‘. . . must be our look-out, in case of reivers.’

  Munro and Archie kept pace with the Sheltie, which was, though Robbie wouldn’t have admitted it, somewhat fat and and lazy and therefore as safe as a pony could be.

  Sybilla watched them, Maggie squealing as Archie, exaggerating the unevenness of the ground, bounced her up and down; Robbie chattering non-stop, his voice high-pitched and carrying in the clear air. She said, ‘You have a fine brood. I can’t wait.’ And wished her words back.

  ‘We aren’t the only folk to lose a child . . . Anna will aye be here . . . aye young . . .’ There was a catch in Kate’s voice. ‘It is hard . . . may always be so, but it is no time since we planned our wedding and now . . . all this.’

  She looked back at the tower-house silhouetted against the sky, its jumble of outbuildings about the base. Even from this distance, it had a prosperous, well-tended air, the walls sharp-edged, the slates even, the thatch of the low buildings trimmed and free from moss.

  ‘I should be . . . am . . . grateful for what we still have. There was a time when I thought it all lost.’

  Ahead of them the children’s voices faded, swallowed by the woods. She took Sybilla’s arm. ‘If we don’t hurry, they will be there and back again and we will have missed the fun.’

  They reached the shade of the trees, the Sheltie tethered beside a track that curved away into the dimness. The ‘glen’ was little more than a gash in the hillside, sheltered from sun and wind, the ground underfoot springy with moss, ankle-deep in last year’s matted leaves. Occasional spears of sunlight pierced through gaps in the trees, across the narrow path. They caught glimpses of Robbie flitting in and out of the shadows: now on the path, now disappearing into the undergrowth, now leaping out again with whoops and shouts. Maggie was still on Archie’s shoulders and Sybilla smiled at his play of surprise each time Robbie jumped him.

  ‘The bairns love him. Even when . . .’ Kate nibbled her lip. ‘The first time Archie came home from Kilmaurs he wasn’t quite himself, but even then he had time for the bairns. He’ll make a good father.’

  They were almost on them now, Sybilla watching Munro as he pounced on Robbie, growling triumphantly, and carried him wriggling back to the path.

  ‘As his brother does.’

  ‘Aye. On a day like this it should be easy to feel fortunate. With family and friends and the leisure to enjoy their company.’ Kate breathed deeply, ‘What right have any of us to ask for more?’

  The path was turning and twisting, following the course of a shallow stream, so that although they were perhaps only a hundred yards behind, there were moments when the woods closed in around them, magnifying the rustling and scuffling of small creatures in the undergrowth.

  ‘Where are we headed?’

  ‘There is a clearing . . .’ Kate broke off. ‘. . . I won’t spoil it for you.’

  The stream trickled and bubbled beside them and Sybilla was aware of odd splashing sounds.

  ‘It isn’t deep enough for fish surely?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  They rounded a bend in the path and they were in the clearing, in the centre a still pool surrounded by aconites, the yellow flowers a carpet of bright faces lifting to the sun.

  Both children were hunkered down at the edge of the water, Archie holding firmly to Maggie’s waist, Munro, one hand on Robbie’s shoulder, pointing downwards. For once the children were silent and as Sybilla approached, she became aware of a background chirriping, almost like birds: short bursts of high notes, punctuated by lower croaking sounds.

  Archie turned his head, his eyes alight. ‘We don’t usually catch them spawning.’

  Among the twigs and fallen leaves and spikes of water hawthorn, Sybilla saw the toads, their skin brown and leathery, bulbous lumps like warts scattered across their backs and legs. There were dozens of them, half in, half out of the water, hanging in pairs: the females clinging to bits of stick or lying on small stones; the males, straddling them, gripping firmly with all four legs, head resting on head. They seemed to stare into the distance, unblinking, unconcerned by their audience, voicing their pleasure. From the rear of each pair long, gelatinous threads spun out, coiling and twining on the surface of the water, and inside them the spawn, like double strings of black beads.

  ‘Shouldn’t it be clumps?’ Sybilla reached into the water, but when she lifted her hand, the spawn slithered through her splayed fingers, leaving only the stickiness across her skin.

  ‘Frogs make clumps. Toads make strings.’ Robbie spoke in an ‘everyone should know that’ tone.

  ‘Can I have some for home?’ Maggie was stretching downwards, guddling in the water, trying to wind a string of spawn around her hand.

  ‘Not today, sweetheart.’ Munro spread his hands. ‘We have nothing to carry it in.’

  She twisted in Archie’s arms.

  Robbie said, ‘You’re not here to work, are you, Uncle Archie?’

  ‘No, though . . .’

  ‘Well then,’ Robbie was triumphant. ‘You can bring us tomorrow.’

  They had a late supper, the children yawning before it was finished, so that Kate shooed them away to bed, ignoring their protests, before repairing to the solar to light the candles and put a spill to the ready laid fire.

  ‘It has such a good draw,’ she said as she watched the flames leap against the chimney back, the kindling sparking like firecrackers.

  ‘It’s a poor show to have my wife take her pleasure from the drawing of a fire.’ Munro, laughing at her, reached down and pulled her to her feet. ‘Approaching elderly you may be, but not that far gone surely?’

  She stepped back a fraction. ‘Not old enough to take to my bed straight from supper.’

  Sybilla, glimpsing a wicked retort in Munro’s eyes, avoided looking at Archie, her own breath quickening. She turned the conversation. ‘Robbie played you well Archie. You have little choice but to go gathering spawn the morn.’

  ‘Aye, he’s not so daft. Of course . . .’ Archie stretched himself along the front of the hearthstone, and leaned his back against Sybilla’s knees, ‘I would rather help with the spring clean that no doubt you ladies have pla
nned.’

  She tugged at the hair springing on the back of his neck and he tilted his head so that it rested on her lap. ‘I could take the bairns,’ she pulled harder, ‘and you could redd-out the pantry.’

  ‘Not if you want a decent dinner.’ Munro was settling himself at the opposite side of the fire. ‘Archie’s idea of redding-out would likely be via his stomach.’

  ‘Serious though, could the spawn live? You might end up with a plague of toads in your yard.’ There was a wistful note in Sybilla’s voice.

  Kate said, ‘Did you never grow tadpoles?

  ‘Mother didn’t have much truck with foolishness and the breeding of toads would surely have counted as such. Forbye that she didn’t like anything that had more than two legs and the smaller they were, the less comfortable she was with them.’

  ‘We tried every spring for years.’ Kate’s eyes had the far-away look of distant memory.

  ‘With success?’

  ‘Some years aye, some not. One year we had the tadpoles in a wee trickle of water in a pail in the yard and the next morning water and tadpoles both were frozen solid. I had the idea of thawing them out in the kettle in the kitchen, but forgot all about them until Agnes poured the kettle into the stewpot.’ Kate’s shoulders began to shake. ‘I didn’t dare say anything, only prayed that they’d disappear in the boiling or come out like shreds of beef and not be noticed in the gravy.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘Mostly, though whether they would’ve if I hadn’t mashed and stirred at the pot every time Agnes wasn’t looking, I don’t know. It was hard to eat it though, knowing what was there.’

  ‘It was spring when your grand-dame died . . .’ Munro said thoughtfully, ducking as Kate rolled her handkerchief into a ball and tossed it at him. He caught it neatly and lobbed it back. ‘I dare say it was but coincidence.’