The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  ‘Best get tae work then. Some folk have tae gang earn the cash for ithers’ extravagances. Cannae hing aboot here a’ day when there’s work tae be done. No like some folk.’

  ‘Aye...’ She found she was talking to the back of the closed door then thought better of it, turned to me and Jim, straight-faced for a second or two before raising one eyebrow. We weren’t sure what that meant but knew better than to test her loyalty to her man.

  I remember watching her take the tin bath from under the box bed. She placed it in front of the fire, emptied boiling water into it then refilled the kettle before setting it back on the swey above the hot coals. The lodgers would be in from the night shift soon, in need of a wash. I saw her looking out of the window, examining the sky above the roofline of the next row. It was a fine summer’s day, she announced, a good drying day and she had her usual Monday morning slot along at the wash house. She looked happy, as if she might burst into song at any moment. Jim and me made ready to leave for the pit, picking up the food she had prepared for us, including the eggs, feeling the warmth of the tea through the metal handle of the tinnies. By the time we’d opened the door, she already had a sweeping brush in her hand.

  ‘See ye efter, Ma,’ I said as I put on my bunnet.

  ‘Aye, see ye efter,’ she replied. ‘Mind come hame in yin piece for a change? Tak tent. Ye niver can tell whit’s roon the corner in this life, John.’

  And as I lie here in this foreign land, far away from Blackrigg, examining the hand with the missing finger, I am reminded of her wisdom. I am grateful that it was Mary Birse who walked into the poorhouse that day and became my mother. She is wise in word and deed, and much respected in the community as nurse, as friend and neighbour. The world is a better place with her in it.

  I cannot blink the tears away fast enough and they flow.

  Elizabeth

  I decide to take the longer route back to the manse so I turn up the hill road at the Smiddy. In doing so I am defying Mrs Tennant’s wrongful judgement of me, asserting my right to walk past the forge. I will not allow her to determine my path in life no matter how remotely, not if I can help it. I am also avoiding an early return to Richard’s world and, before I know it, I am passed the top entrance to Manse Lane, have almost climbed to the place where the road levels off and I have a choice of routes. I can either climb to the top of The Law, or continue eastwards along the old coach road, go north towards Whinbank where the Macleans live, or meander along the edge of the muir towards Parkgate House and Redburn Farm. Oh, to have choices in this life! I decide the latter is the best option as I am welcome at both Parkgate and Redburn and, sheepishly I admit, that option gives me an excuse for having been absent for so long when I do eventually return to the manse.

  I find the going hard over the open muir. It’s not that it’s heavy under foot but I do not seem to have the energy I set out with earlier in the morning. My anger often carries me further than I intend and when it dissipates, as it must, I can feel lethargic, weary of the struggle within myself. The wind has dropped and the sun is quite warm as I wander across a dip in the ground, so I settle beside an old wall to rest. The sky is a brilliant blue beyond the broken cloud above me. I can see that the lower cloud is stationary, completely still and unchanging, brightly lit by the sun which still has a while to climb to its highest point of the day. I love the patterns and shapes and colours in the clouds and watch them for a while, feeling more composed with every passing minute. I am not unhappy all of the time and I know that I have much to be grateful for – there have been many good times and opportunities these last four years. But as the higher cloud scuds past on faraway winds, I am fearful, almost panicked, that my sudden calm will be taken from me by forces that are great and overwhelming and everything will be beyond my reach – as is the way of things. I often think of the summer four years ago and how much of a turning point it seemed to be at the time. But we had no idea what was ahead of us. How I ache for peace to return. We are all weary of the war and wish an end to it. I think of the women I have just visited in the village and the sons they yearn to have home, and all of the mothers and sons and sweethearts from across this land and beyond who pray for the same. Perhaps we will not have to wait too much longer before we can pick up the pieces of our lives and move on.

  I often find solace here on the hill where I am all alone, listening to the wind in the grass and the birds’ call, remembering people who are no longer here, hoping and praying for peace, dreaming of happier days that may lie ahead. If not here, I find succour in the garden at the manse. I have long had an interest in matters of a botanical nature and the garden has given me an outlet for my energy and creativity. It is also testament to my skills and determination, and what I can and have achieved when others conspire to control me.

  Richard mocked my plans for the garden when I first took to it but I shut him out, letting his hateful words wash over me. I ignored his disapproving stare as he watched from the kitchen window, impatiently waiting for tea to be served, whilst I worked at the ground in all weathers. He would tut loudly when, finally, I returned to my household chores. He would chastise me as I sat by the doorstep easing off muddy boots, removing my soiled apron and wiping the sweat on my brow with the back of a dirty hand. Nothing he said could destroy the joy I felt from my time in the open air, digging over the heavy soil coloured black by peat, improving it with manure from the farm and with lime from the works on the hill. Nothing he said could remove that inner smile brought on by the product of hard work and a job well done, amongst the dirt, the flowers, and the bees.

  In the first year, I moved mounds of earth by the barrow load from one corner to another, according to a plan drawn up in my notebook. I created levels and compartments, defining each small space with walls and little hedges that would afford protection from the worst of the weather. When the church warden appeared one day to give assistance, Richard could only manage a thin smile and take his leave, retreating into the manse to complete some very important work for the parish council. In the second year, much to his dismay, a greenhouse arrived to be positioned near the wall at the far end. Two labourers laid out a platform of red brick and returned the following day to erect the structure of wood and glass. Richard tackled me about the cost immediately, said it was a little too ornate for his taste. But when I explained that it was a gift from Parkgate House, salvaged from the reorganisation of the grounds by the new Mrs Melville, he acquiesced with pursed lips and a bow of his head in deference to the local gentry. In the third year, a succession of flowering plants and shrubs came into its own, drawing admiring looks from passers-by on their way up the lane. On leaving a Sunday service, I overheard a parishioner remarking about the wonderful transformation that had taken place in the manse garden under the minister’s supervision, changing a rather plain space into a cornucopia of delights for the eye and the palate. Richard beamed and said that it had really been nothing at all. Gardening was such an innocent pleasure. It was down to God at the end of the day, and the many gifts he bestowed upon the world. After all, he asked enthusiastically, had the first garden not been planted by the Lord?

  Until Sarah came to help in the manse in early June of 1914, I relished the tranquillity of the morning, especially in summer when the grey light of dawn slipped into that silent cavernous house and I could steal out into my precious garden once again. Although the morning was a busy time, with so much to do in the kitchen, I had hours of my own company to enjoy before Richard surfaced demanding breakfast, reminding me of the importance of his work as a minister of the church – attending to the spiritual needs of the local population. He might comment on the state of the brasses or the dust on the polished furniture, the need for a change of towel in his bedroom perhaps; or he would take an opportunity to scold me about the overuse of coals during the summer months; sometimes, he would offer help in the planning of my day, and remind me about who was coming for supper. He would test me on hi
s guests’ food preferences though the dinner menu varied little, being entirely dependent on the season and what was available at the Co-op, not to mention what he had allocated for housekeeping from his limited stipend.

  I remember watching the silent house and planning that day as I anticipated Sarah’s arrival. It was to be dominated by the funeral, of course. Richard was in a flap and would be until the whole thing was over and the man had been laid to rest. The deceased had been a pillar of the community, held in high esteem by all who knew him and respected by many he had never even met. A large attendance was expected. Proper procedures would have to be followed and appropriate things would need to be said. In his role as minister, Richard had spent hours visiting the family and writing the eulogy. It hadn’t been easy: the amount of paper he wasted in the process was testimony to that. He had been in such a temper about it and that was not like him, I will admit. He does enjoy the limelight after all. In common with the other women, I was to have no role in the service or the committal. Unusually though, the mourners would be back in the church hall for a grand tea. The departed had insisted upon it apparently. That was where I came in, organising and overseeing a small troop of ladies who would descend on the place to set the tables, laying out a spread for the return of the men. After listening to one of the minister’s long diatribes, they would be thirsty, gasping for a strong brew, and hungry for food and conversation.

  I’d had no option but to join the other women on the Tea Committee, though I tried to avoid it for long enough. Somehow, along with my familial ties to the minister came responsibilities towards his parishioners. But as he was quick to point out, they paid for my keep at the end of the day. Richard rarely missed an opportunity to remind me that my position in this world was entirely dependent on his. My contribution as a Sabbath School teacher was not enough, even if I did keep house for him with all the hard labour that entailed. After my first year in the parish, back in 1910, my reticence to immerse myself in the work of the church was being noted, Richard insisted, and my diffidence could no longer be used as an excuse for hiding behind the walls of the manse. Besides, he added, being active in the community was a good way of moving on, putting the past behind me.

  But I had not wanted to forget the past! In those first weeks and months after the scandal had broken and Neil Tennant had left the village, I had thought of him every waking minute of every day. I remembered our trysts at the shieling on the hill, of how he had taken me in his arms and told me how much he loved me. I wanted to go back there so many times but promised myself I would not return without him. When I was busy at my work I longed for his arrival, telling me he had come back for me at last. Every knock at the door brought a quickening of my heart. When I stepped out along Main Street to buy provisions from the shops or take letters to the Post Office, I would fix any stray locks of hair behind my ears, straightening my skirt in preparation. I would glance in the direction of the Smiddy, hoping to see him appear round the corner, dressed in the leather apron of his trade, holding me with his eyes as he walked to meet me, then offering to carry my basket back to the manse. When I was wet and cold from my labours in the garden, I prayed that the footsteps coming along Manse Lane would be his, and he would smile his beautiful smile as he came in through the gate to find me.

  But he did not come, winter turned into spring, succeeding seasons came and went, one after the other. Long years passed without a word. In the quiet moments I wondered where he was and what he was doing. Always I hoped he was well: eating, sleeping, and working in the gentle places of my imagination where kindness and good fortune reigned. I prayed that bitterness had not entered his heart to cloud his memory of me, that he remembered me with fondness and with love.

  Then came that fateful day in the early summer of 1914 and I remember every detail as if it was yesterday. I remember the warmth of the morning sun reaching out to me through the branches of a small rowan, its leaves young and fresh; how those delicate fronds shaded the bench where I lingered. I sat breathing in the morning air, and looked around at my beautiful garden, trying as usual to shake off the heavy burden of my loss. I had thrown myself into good works: committee work for the church and village organisations, visiting church members laid low with sickness. I worked from dawn till dusk in the house, cleaning and cooking, comforting parishioners as they waited to be seen by the minister, and serving the visitors invited to break bread with him. But none of it eased the ache deep inside me, the loneliness and the longing. Only there in that beautiful place of my creation did I find peace to think and remember the past, peace to reflect and to hope for the future. Hope and my garden were all I had to keep me going, I realised. But what I discovered later that day threw everything into a state of flux. Sometimes, as my late mother used to say, things had to get worse before they got better.

  And they certainly did.

  Chapter 3

  John

  It’s dark except for a small lamp at the far end of this long room I find myself in. The ceiling is made of wood and is a fine construction the likes of which I have never seen before. The walls are a plain white plaster and quite high with no adornment of any kind save a simple wooden cross on the wall nearest to me. The windows are small but there are several and every second one is open day and night, weather permitting, for which we are grateful since the smell in the room would choke us all to death quicker than our wounds and infections could act against us. The delirium of recent days has gone. I no longer wake up in a pool of sweat, half aware that nurses are whispering at the foot of my bed about my chances of survival. The dressings on my hip, my right hand and on my neck wound are clean and fresh, devoid of the stench of death, unlike before. I no longer feel the heaviness in my limbs as if the life blood has been sucked out of them leaving me unable to raise a finger to help myself. I am reassured as I study the hand with the missing digit, that there are indeed only four fingers there, evidence that my memory has not been playing tricks. I am who I think I am and have begun to piece together the history of my short life, making sense of the rambling recollections that came with the fever.

  The funeral for the man who died, Charlie Scobie, took place as quickly as possible after his demise when the roof collapsed in Broadrigg No. 1. As soon as the local joiner had knocked together a coffin and the lair had been dug, a send-off took place – a whip round funded the arrangements. It being the summer, and a warm one at that, the body would deteriorate fast in the back room of the but an’ ben the deceased had occupied with his wife, three children and a couple of boarders. The lodgers were quickly decanted to another household for the time being. It was a frightful thing to put the Scobies through for any longer than necessary, knowing that a dead husband and father was lying prostrate through by wrapped in a sheet and covered in a mortcloth hired by the day. Still, that wasn’t nearly as upsetting as the day of the accident when Mrs Scobie arrived home to find half a dozen men trying to pass her husband’s dead and battered body through the open window and lay him out on the kitchen table. The door being locked, and no sign of her in the vicinity, they’d had no option but to deliver him through the window, they told her. But, no fear, Highland Mary was already on her way to dress the body, they explained.

  I tried not to appear too affected by the accident, taking my mother’s advice not to dwell on what couldn’t be changed. Besides, it wasn’t the way of it. Showing how you felt about such things would only open yourself up to ridicule and name calling. Sticks and stones and all that. But that bit about names never hurting? Fegs! Bruises can heal but names wound deep and leave their mark, in my experience. I managed a game of football of an evening and a daunder up the road to the moss with the lads but the day of the funeral was another matter entirely. It wasn’t that I minded going but I knew all eyes would be on me, questioning, and so it proved. Mrs Scobie had insisted that I come into the house when she saw me standing with the crowd of men in the street, outside the door. They pushed me in through th
e mourners, into the front room where the relatives had gathered waiting for Mr Scoular of The Brethren to say a few words. There was Charlie Scobie lying dead in his cheap wooden coffin, on top of the table by the only window. The relatives stared at me, John Birse, the boy who had lived whilst Charlie had died.

  ‘How close we are to death,’ Mr Scoular said in the confident yet mournful tones of somebody who thinks often and deeply of such things. ‘We never know the day nor the hour till it comes to pass. That is how it is meant to be. Only the Lord knows when it will be our time. It could so easily have been John who was crushed when the roof came in but Charlie had been chosen. It was Charlie’s time, even though the man has a wife and three young children dependent upon him for food and shelter. It is part of the great mystery of life that a young lad of sixteen has been spared whilst the man has been taken.’

  I stood with my head bowed, finding it easier to look at the bloodless corpse of Mr Scobie than the blank faces of the bereaved. Afterwards, the journey along the Rowanhill road seemed endless as I walked behind the cart carrying the coffin to its final resting place in the new cemetery – the kirkyard having no room for incomers. I felt my body quite detached from myself whilst I pondered the mysteries of life, especially the question of why Charlie Scobie who had so much to live for had died whilst me, unworthy John Birse whose very own mother had given him up at birth, had been spared.

  When Charlie’s body was about to be delivered home through the open window of his rented cottage, another funeral was taking place elsewhere in Blackrigg. I caught sight of it as I carried my bandaged hand in front of me up the pit road, having been released early from that fateful shift. Judging by the crowds, word had spread that the hearse carrying the deceased to his final resting place was well on its way along the road from Rowanhill. In recognition of his connection with Craigpark where his family had been innkeepers for many years in the distant past, the funeral procession was to stop in the road by the ruin of the old coaching inn for a minute’s silence, before continuing along Main Street to the kirkyard. The street was lined on both sides with people from all walks of life who had come to pay their respects. Women with young children in tow had joined the old men already in place for a good view of the proceedings. Shopkeepers had left their places of business and the entire roll of Blackrigg School, some four hundred children, crowded the pavements close to the church. Numbers were swelled by workers from Blairha’ and Back o’ Moss Pits as they wound their weary way home after the early shift.