The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  Murdo Maclean’s final journey from his home at Whinbank to the village of Blackrigg for burial was slow and stately. His coffin lay in a glass-sided hearse, pulled by a black stallion, strong and sleek, its noble head adorned with a fine, white plume. A highly polished motor car followed on behind. It carried his widow, a nephew and the minister, Mr Fraser. The owner of the car, David Melville, sat in front beside the driver. As the local laird he’d have been pleased to be of service to the Maclean family at a difficult time, whilst publicly acknowledging Mr Maclean’s long friendship with his own family, the Melvilles of Rashiepark. A small number of open carriages followed. The first, drawn by a pale horse, was full of colourful flowers, sprays of summer blooms, floral tributes given by a variety of organisations and individuals to show their appreciation of his life’s work as a stalwart of the community. The remaining carriages carried the select group of family and friends who’d attended the service that had already taken place in the privacy of Whinbank.

  By the time the cortege pulled up in front of the old Craigpark Inn, a long line of smartly dressed, mainly elderly men had formed behind. Suited and booted, trussed up in black ties and stiff collars, they sweated under woollen coats more appropriate for a wild winter’s day than sunny, summer skies. To add to their discomfort, all wore hats, either top hats or bowlers depending on their station in life, and most sported beards or moustaches. Even the local constabulary had sent two of their own, to pay their respects and take up the rear. Onlookers bowed their heads and mothers tried to keep infants quiet during the silence. This was a time for people to remember Murdo’s long connection to this place they called Blackrigg, a place he’d devoted his life to and a place that he’d loved. With his passing had gone his memories of the coaching days on the Old Great Road that crossed the country and brought people and trade from far and near for business and pleasure. Gone were the images imprinted on his mind of his mother and father, of his sisters and brothers, children of a happy home by all accounts; gone too were his memories of the servants and the ostlers, and the old ways, long consigned to the past. They’d only be remembered in the stories he’d passed on, tales of olden times when life was simpler and more innocent no doubt, tales that would become less precise with every telling. But Murdo had left his mark on the place and that was why so many were present that day to give thanks and say goodbye. The village library, revived and invigorated by Murdo, carried his name into the future. His work on the parish council and on the school board would not be forgotten and would be continued by others. He had used the knowledge and experience of his long life, some eighty-five years by the end, for the greater good. True, his passing was a break with the past but the legacy of his long life, a life well-lived, lay in the way others had been influenced and encouraged by his knowledge and example.

  I’d had no close encounters with Mr Maclean but had seen his portly figure striding through the village to his meetings or the Sunday morning service at the kirk. I’d heard his hearty laugh in the distance and bowed to his reputation as a good man. Death, the great leveller, had come for Murdo and Charlie at the same time. Why death had chosen to avoid Murdo for so long was another matter, giving him eighty years in which to leave a legacy that would live on after him. But who would remember thirty-year-old Charlie Scobie, the skilled hewer, bar his widow and children now facing eviction from their home? What would his legacy be?

  At the end of the day, the two men were equal in death though they had not been equal in life.

  Life, and the path it takes, is indeed hard to fathom.

  I can still see the motor car suddenly purr back into life and follow the hearse when it moved off along Main Street towards the kirkyard. Like a wave breaking along a shore, men removed their caps as the procession passed. The widow (well catered for) and the heir (a nephew from faraway), the laird of Rashiepark, and the great and the good followed in the good man’s wake and the rest of us, spellbound for a moment, turned back to our ordinary lives in the Rows.

  Elizabeth

  After an early luncheon, Richard sped off with David Melville for the private funeral service at Whinbank Farm, Murdo’s family home. I was never so glad to see the back of my brother! There was no doubt he was in his element at the thought of a street packed with onlookers, hushed and respectful, as he took centre stage beside the deceased, amid a sea of silk top hats. He had lectured me a little too enthusiastically about how a funeral was a sad occasion for loved ones left behind but an occasion for rejoicing too. His faith told him that a man’s passing marked the beginning of his journey from this earth to Eternal Life with God the Father in Heaven. It was also an opportunity to reflect on the achievements of the deceased, and to give thanks for their talents and virtues which in some cases, but not all, were many. Though good reason to rejoice, the changes wrought by the death of someone as influential as Murdo Maclean could be dislocating for those left behind. Murdo had been in charge of both the school board and the parish council, for example, and these positions would have to be filled soon.

  As Richard had busied himself for his departure, he suddenly stopped short in the hallway, closed his eyes, seeking guidance from above. I watched as he quietly prayed that the void left by Murdo’s passing might be filled for everyone’s sake. He opened his eyes with a start and something approaching glee shone from his countenance. He had prepared a few uplifting words to say to the gathering in the family home and, later, to the multitude by the graveside and he seemed suddenly anxious to get them over with. It would be a tiring day, he told me, and there was a lot of talking to be done, conversing with mourners about local affairs, such as the state of the school and the use of the rates. He would press them for their priorities and impress them with his interest and knowledge of local matters. He hadn’t realised that he had given himself away but I could read him like a book.

  Who could fill Murdo Maclean’s shoes? It was so obvious when he thought about it. Who better? He believed he had the authority and the bearing for it. He looked heavenward, convinced he was up to the task. And it wasn’t vanity, it was his calling! Richard Fraser had turned the passing of a much loved champion of the community into an opportunity for himself. And the man wasn’t even cold in his grave! Clutching his bible to his breast, with a flourish and a swish of his long black robes Richard left the manse at a rate of knots, impatient for the arrival of the motor vehicle from Parkgate House.

  ‘Come along, come along,’ he called out to no one in particular. ‘Murdo wouldn’t want to keep the Good Lord waiting, now would he?’

  Later, in the church hall I joined the ladies of the tea committee who were crowded around the stool on which one of their own stood in order to get a clear view of proceedings in the small graveyard below. The hall was a bright airy space but the lower windows were frosted for the sake of privacy and only those brave enough to stand on tip-toe on a high stool were rewarded with sight of what went on in the world outside.

  ‘Oh, my! Whit a sicht!’ called out Mrs Gowans, revelling in the power her elevated situation gave her over the others who were clamouring to hear what was happening outside.

  ‘Are there monie folk in attendance, Mrs Gowans?’ asked the Widow MacAuley squinting upwards. ‘Whau is there tae see?’

  ‘Oh, there’s a wheen o’ them, richt enough, as ye micht expect. I hope we’ve enough cups for them a’.’ Mrs Gowans stretched a little too far and wobbled precariously on her perch.

  ‘Watch out!’ I cautioned, feeling responsible for what was going on. ‘Please don’t fall. Perhaps we could look from the doorway instead?’

  ‘Och, but it widnae be richt. Whaur’s yer manners, Miss Fraser?’ said Mrs Gowans from on high. ‘A funeral’s nae place for women.’

  ‘Besides, ye get a better view frae up there,’ added old Mrs Gow pointing a gnarled finger upwards.

  ‘Be careful then. Please. Just tell us when they’re about to finish so that we can get the tea b
rewing.’ I knew there was no point in arguing.

  ‘Can ye see Mrs Maclean at a’?’ asked the Widow MacAuley. ‘How’s she lookin’?’ Turning to her companions she said, ‘It’s a difficult time, as I fine ken masel.’

  The ladies nodded. Mrs MacAuley had been a widow longer than anyone could remember.

  ‘She’s staunin’ ower at the kirk, lettin’ the men get oan wi’ it. Respectfu’ like,’ Mrs Gowans explained.

  ‘Respectful?! She should be in here with the women, not out there with the men,’ lectured Miss Silver through thin lips.

  ‘Whit’s she got on?’ Daisy Gowans called up to her mother.

  ‘She’s wearin’ black,’ Mrs Gowans called back.

  ‘We ken siclike withoot lookin’,’ retorted Mrs Gow.

  ‘A long frock and a wee jaicket. Silk an’ brocade b’ the looks o’ things; a hat – no ower fancy, mind – an’ a veil. Och, jist the ticket… fair braw. Gloves tae match... long yins... an’ a string o’ pearls.’

  ‘Pearls? At a funeral?’ tutted the Widow MacAuley.

  ‘Mebbe her man gied her them,’ snapped Mrs Gowans in defence of Mrs Maclean.

  ‘We’ll see her soon enough, ladies,’ I interjected. It seemed immoral to be spying on Mrs Maclean at such an intimate moment, though it did feel strangely exciting at the same time. I held my hands up, ready to catch Mrs Gowans as she teetered once again.

  ‘Is the nephew there, Mrs Gowans?’ asked Miss Silver blushing. ‘Just out of interest,’ she added quickly. ‘I believe his name is Donald.’

  ‘Oh, aye. He’s there,’ came the reply. ‘Richt next tae the minister, so he is. Haud oan, somethin’s happenin’. Noo he’s taen a cord. It’s the yin at the heid. Aye, he’s a handsome lad, noo I get a guid look at him.’

  ‘He’s a guid catch for somebody,’ suggested the Widow MacAuley. ‘Sic a shame I’m the wrang side o’ twinty-five masel.’

  ‘The wrang side o’ twinty-five?’ exclaimed Mrs Gow, her good friend and neighbour. ‘Ye were the wrang side o’ twinty-five when Adam was a boy!’

  The Widow MacAuley gave a throaty cackle. ‘I still ken a handsome lad when I see yin. Jist the dab fur yersel, Miss Fraser. Or young Daisy Gowans here, in a couple o’ years time!’

  Daisy’s girlish protestations deflected attention from my embarrassment, surely evident in the blush spreading rapidly across my face. I have always felt cursed by blushing as it gives away my feelings for all to see.

  ‘What else can you see, Mrs Gowans?’ I asked, quickly moving the subject away from Donald Maclean and his eligibility.

  ‘Some o’ the ferm workers have been gien cords, Doctor Matheson tae.’ Mrs Gowans steadied herself, clung evermore tightly to the window sill. ‘His Lordship, David Melville’s at the feet,’ she continued. ‘Nae show withoot Punch, I suppose.’

  ‘Mrs Gowans! This is no time for disrespect,’ chastised Miss Silver. ‘Mr Melville and Mr Maclean were good friends.’ She walked off in high dudgeon, casting an eye over the tables which were laden with sandwiches and home baking, all set for afternoon tea.

  ‘The coffin’s doon noo,’ continued Mrs Gowans ignoring Miss Silver’s rebuke. ‘They’ll be a while yet. Mr Fraser’ll have plenty mair tae say, ye can be sure.’ She glanced down at me. ‘Nae offence, Miss Fraser.’

  ‘None taken, Mrs Gowans,’ I replied, hiding a smile. In my book, there was nothing wrong in speaking the truth and I was well aware of how much my brother liked the sound of his own voice. I joined Miss Silver in a review of the tables then made for the scullery where several large tea pots stood waiting to be filled.

  ‘Weel, I’ll be damned! Thon was quick! The meenister’s in a hurry the day, for sure!’ called out Mrs Gowans. ‘They’re feenished an’ they’re comin’ this wey, like bats oot o’ hell! Quick git me doon oot here, Daisy!’

  A black tide of mourners clutching their hats swept into the hall just as Mrs Gowans was pulling herself together with Daisy’s help. The crowd parted down the middle when Mrs Maclean entered to take her place at the top table, entreating everyone not to stand on ceremony and to tuck in. As soon as grace was said, of course. Her husband had left instructions for a tea to be laid on and they were to have their fill. According to Murdo, she informed the mourners, good conversation in good company over afternoon tea was one of life’s joys, a delight to be savoured whenever possible.

  ‘Enjoy,’ she told them, so they did.

  The tea committee was soon busy around the hall, filling cups and fetching more when required. I remained in the scullery, attending to matters there, supervising things from a distance, out of sight and away from the hubbub. I would make an appearance later, to give my condolences to Mrs Maclean, and to appease my brother who would be watching for me. Meantime though, Richard would be preoccupied, deep in conversation about important matters, currying favour with local worthies in the name of the church and for his own sake. I was busy at the sink when Mrs Gowans appeared at my back, pleading with me to lend a hand in the hall. Whilst Mrs Gow and the Widow MacAuley meant well, she explained, they were on the slow side. And they’d already scalded the undertaker twice and spilled milk into the stationmaster’s lap. Could I come and lend a hand for a bit?

  I entered the hall carrying a large teapot, scanning the hall looking for empty cups. A sea of faces, animated in conversation, looked up briefly in my direction. They were all male, or nearly so. At the far end, Mrs Maclean was surrounded by well-wishers offering their condolences. Catherine Melville had joined her husband at the top table and another woman sat by the door. I couldn’t make out who she was at first. It was unusual for women to be in attendance, unless they were family or gentry. A hand went up for more tea so I made my way into the middle of the hall, making small talk and enquiring after someone’s health on the way. I glanced around the room and noticed that the woman seemed to be looking in my direction. Perhaps she needed more tea. I was close to her before I realised who she was. Her bonnet sat forward on her head, shielding her eyes until she looked up, fixing me with a glare.

  ‘Good day, Mrs Tennant.’ I tried hard to hide my surprise. ‘Would… would you like some tea?’

  Stoney-faced, Mrs Tennant held out her cup. She glowered at me.

  ‘What brings you here, Mrs Tennant?’

  ‘A funeral, Miss Fraser.’

  I remember how I wished the floor would open up. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘The Tennants have been smiths in Blackrigg from time immemorial, an’ had a lang association wi’ the Macleans o’ Craigpark,’ she lectured. ‘It’s oor place tae be here.’

  ‘Of course it is. You’ve every right... It was just... that we haven’t seen you here, at the church... for some time, Mrs Tennant. That’s what I... was thinking.’ I was trying to explain myself but was failing badly. I noticed Mr Tennant sitting beside his wife. He was looking in my direction, no hint of expression on his lined face, bright red from years at the forge.

  How could the Tennants know that their son was rarely out of my mind? And the first thought that had come into my head, when I recognised them there in the church hall, was that they must have come to bring news of him? Wasn’t it a reasonable conclusion to make? It had been nearly four years since the Tennant family had suddenly stopped attending church, not long after Neil had left the village. For all that time, unless there were witnesses, I’d been snubbed in the street by Mrs Tennant, more or less ignored by her in the store when I’d stood in the queue to buy provisions or had waited to be served in the post office, rubbing salt into the wound of my broken heart. I hadn’t been able to understand his mother’s treatment of me. I’d made it clear from the start how I felt about Neil, and how much I wanted him to return. I’d asked her to write to him and tell him how I felt, beseeched her to ask him to write back to me.

  But he never did.

  Now the Tennants were there in the hall, perhaps
finally realising that they’d been wrong to blame me for Neil’s decision to go away and not come back. Perhaps I was to be reprieved at long last. But it was none of that. Having prayed for his return for so long, it was only wishful thinking on my part that Mrs Tennant had come to bring news of her son after all this time. The Tennants were there for the funeral, to pay their respects. That was all.

  I remember how Mrs Tennant began speaking then, her mouth animated, cruel, and her brow furrowed. I could see that the woman was talking at me, a torrent of words flowing out of her mouth. But I couldn’t fathom it. It couldn’t be true, could it? There was no sense to any of it. The babble from the crowd in the hall grew louder and it was suddenly hot. The room was whirling and I could hardly swallow. Mrs Tennant was in full flow, her eyes wild. I could hear her though my head was spinning. It was as clear as day and I understood. That was why I had to get away. I felt my knees go weak and made my excuses, gibbering like a fool. I made for the kitchen through a tide of raised hands. More tea, dear lady! More tea!! The tea pot left my hands and crashed across the floor.

  In the kitchen, I clutched at the sink, relieved to have escaped the throng but feeling sick. I gulped in air, felt like I was drowning. My legs were giving way. The current was taking me down into the depths, the watery depths where daylight did not enter.