by Mary Easson
Sarah nodded. ‘Promise.’
I pushed the letter into the pocket of my skirt then tip-toed across the room to the girls’ bed and said cheerio, though all three were still sound asleep. I leaned over the boys and lifted a wee hand under the cover.
‘Get back to sleep, Tommy.’
‘Chap at the door!’ he said. Only his big brown eyes could be seen above the blanket but he was wide awake, ready for nonsense.
I pretended to knock on his forehead. ‘Chap at the door!’ I whispered.
‘Keek in,’ he said.
So I had a good look into his eyes.
‘Lift the sneck.’ I pinched his nose till he gasped for air. ‘Walk in!’ and I put a finger into his gaping mouth.
‘Again! Chap at the door!’ A wee lad ay up for nonsense.
‘Get back tae sleep, rascal! I need tae get tae ma work.’ I tucked him in firmly.
‘Mind yer letter,’ he taunted in a small boy sing-song voice.
I put a finger to my mouth and opened my eyes wide. Me and Tommy had a secret.
With a hug for Sarah, I went into the front room where breakfast was well under way. My father nodded, half smiling, his mouth full. Jean’s porridge was going down a treat with the men. Conversation was limited as eating took precedence – everybody had a long day ahead of them. Jean’s brothers – Peter and Gavin – said little, their eyes trained on the clock and the need to get to work on time. There was barely enough room for the two of them, sitting side by side in shirts and braces, hunched over the table, their big workmen’s hands round cups of hot tea. At the allotted hour both gave a grunt then rose in unison to put on their jackets and bunnets. Jean told them to mind their heads. What else could she wish two coal miners on their way down the pit, way below ground in the dark and the damp? With her hands clasped tightly against her breast, she watched till the door closed and the brothers had joined the other workers heading along the terraced rows of Stoneyrigg to the local pits and quarries. She took up the tea pot offering to top up my cup. No thanks, I had to refuse. I’d a long walk to Netherside and had to be there by six.
‘Ye’ve forgotten somethin’, lass,’ came my father’s voice as I took my leave.
My heart skipped a beat and my hand went straight to the pocket with the letter. I turned towards him, wondering. He held out my hat. It was made of straw with a wide brim pinned up at the front. It had been my mother’s hat and now it belonged to me.
I took it and our eyes met. ‘See you the next time, faither.’
‘Aye, mind how ye go, lass.’
When I stepped into the road, most workers streamed past me heading east to the quarry and the Broadrigg Pits but I followed a group of men in the opposite direction to the crossroads at Craigpark where some took the station road for the mine at Blairha’ and others continued straight ahead along Main Street to the Doctor’s Brae, making for the coal pit at Back o’ Moss on the far side of the burn. I ignored the hill road, the poor weather route to Netherside, and continued through the village then turned up Manse Lane for the short cut across the muir. I had the morning all to myself, just me and the birds of the air, and was glad of it. As was my habit, I strode out with purpose, thankful to be earning my keep, though sad to be leaving my family and friends behind for another week. I made my way across Mansefield and climbed the stile without looking back, followed the hedgerow upwards to the head dyke that marked the edge of the better land then scrambled over the wall onto the muir where sheep grazed peacefully in the early summer sunshine.
It was there that I put my pack down and put on my hat, as I always did. The wide brim brought welcome shade during long days in the fields. It was made of pale straw in the old-fashioned style of the bondagers, the female workers who had tended the fields and farms of lowland Scotland for generations past. My mother had worn the hat as a girl when her father – my grandfather – had been hired as a dairyman at Whinbank, and she was part of the bond. She’d been wearing it the day a handsome young builder called Tom Graham arrived on the scene, contracted to build a new stable block at The Mains. By Martinmas of the following year, she and Tom were married and five daughters arrived in quick succession. But soon after the death of their infant son, she succumbed to consumption and we were all left to grieve.
I adjusted my mother’s hat against the sun as I looked across to the miners’ rows of Stoneyrigg, and the small, two-roomed cottage where my family lived. My father would be getting ready to leave for his work, I surmised. He would be taking his bunnet from the nail by the door and donning the woollen jacket that he wore all year round, rain, hail or shine. Jean would give him a kiss on the cheek and say that she would see him when he returned for his dinner at midday and he would leave the house with a spring in his step. I was happy for him, happy that he had found a new wife to care for him and share his bed. But it had all happened so fast and it was hard to get used to, so unlike the days when Meg had been here.
As the eldest of five girls, Meg had left school at thirteen to nurse our mother and help in the house. Meg: our sister and second mother, who had cleaned and cooked and sewed for us all. She had watched her sisters, Marion and Nell, grow old enough to leave home for employment as domestic servants whilst the two youngest, Sarah and me, continued at school. Then, when it was announced that Meg was to marry Will Morton, I had assumed I would take over the reins from Meg, looking after our father and Sarah. But there was a shortage of housing in the village. No sooner had Meg married and got on the boat for Canada with her new husband but Jean had moved in as a lodger, keeping house for us Grahams in lieu of the rent. Not only that but she brought two brothers with her. And a young daughter of her own too. Then a whole series of children began to arrive: a niece and two nephews, the grandson of another brother who worked at sea, and several other waifs and strays who needed love and somewhere to bide. I smiled at the thought of them all sleeping soundly in their beds, tucked up together, soon to wake up to that beautiful morning and a cuddle from Jean.
The sun shone brightly on the moss spread out below the place where I stood that Monday morning, drinking in the view that I loved, enough to quench my thirst for another week. Snaking eastwards, through farmland and industry, the Red Burn carried spring rain out of the bog, a prospect of browns and greens interrupted by black, peaty hags, where the moorcocks rose in a flutter and the marsh birds gathered by dark pools. Great piles of waste rock rose up behind a maze of sheds and workshops, built beside the pits where a workforce travailed above and below ground made black by coal dust. Clouds of smoke and steam belched into the summer air from tall square chimneys, from the coke ovens and from the engines shuttling up and down the lines whilst a thin, grey pall of smoke seeped out of the chimneys of a hundred homes into the still air.
I looked for the church with its long rig of land where the manse was. Sarah would be up and about, ready for work, looking fine in her new clothes, bought specially for her first employment. I knew she would be nervous at first, in the company of her elders and betters, trying to do her best and not make any mistakes. At least she didn’t have to bide in but could go home to her own bed at night, to be with our father and play with the children. She could see our friends and keep up with the comings and goings of the Stoneyrigg folk. I missed that. I had to bide at Netherside because it was too far to walk home each night, though I knew I was fortunate to be allowed to visit as often as once a week.
I reasoned that it wouldn’t be long before the next Sunday evening and I’d be back in my own place, with my own folk, when I could walk up the rows to see friends and say hello to the women, enquiring after their children and their menfolk. And best of all, I would have the chance to pass the steading at Craigpark, where the men congregated for a blether. I would pray that the boys would be there, old friends from school but now working for a living just like me. I would feel butterflies in my stomach as I walked down Manse Lane heading for home wi
th my bundle over my shoulder. I would take off my hat, and smooth down my hair, feel weak at the knees, an ache down my neck, and my mouth would go dry as each step took me along Main Street closer to where they might be. In vain I would try not to look when I passed them. I would hope that my rosy, red cheeks didn’t give me away as I searched the faces for one in particular, the one who was never out of my thoughts, even when I was hard at work at Netherside. How my heart soared at the thought of him. Rob Duncan.
I pulled down my hat and picked up my bundle, a broad smile on my face. I ran up the hill, happy to be alive on that glorious summer’s day, when the possibilities of life and love were all around, right there for the taking.
Singling turnips is the hardest job on the farm. Everybody agrees. My back is breaking with all the stooping and I have to lean on the hoe more and more as the morning wears on but I will not cry. There are worse things in this world as I know full well. I grit my teeth and keep going up the drill, removing turnips where they’re overcrowded and will not thrive. The ones left behind will have space and light and nourishment from the land, and will grow strong. As I look back along the length of the rows I have singled and weeded, I am pleased with my work and soon forget about the ache in my back. I am fortunate to be here in this sunny field in the fresh air, able to go home in the evening and be with the children. There are many who are far away, at the Front, who must dream of the day when they will return to their homes and families and workplaces. There are many who will not return, too many. I can hardly bear to think of it.
As I soon found out, Sarah’s first day at the manse was eventful to say the least. When she arrived, Miss Fraser had tried to put her at her ease by making a cup of tea, though this just served to unsettle her. Sarah had never been invited to take tea with a stranger before, far less drink from a bone china cup that might break in her hand if she wasn’t careful. Miss Fraser explained what the scullery maid’s duties entailed then she showed her around the house and the garden. It was such a great, enormous house, Sarah said, with different rooms for talking, eating and sleeping, a room called the study set aside for the minister to work at his sermons, a kitchen with a separate scullery for doing the washing and a walk-in pantry where food was stored in baskets and jars, though most were empty. There was even an indoor lavatory, and a bathroom with a huge bath, all for the comfort of the minister and his sister. Sarah marvelled at it all. She was used to domestic work along in the Rows and as soon as she got to know where everything in the manse was kept, and got used to Miss Fraser’s ways of doing things, she knew she would enjoy her employment. Miss Fraser had been fair patient and helpful that morning, taking time to explain things more than once without being asked. She was a kind and understanding mistress, sensitive to other people’s feelings, and ready to put them at their ease. Miss Fraser wasn’t the type who needed to make you feel small so that she could look big herself – not like some folk Sarah could mention. And she was trusting too. After a morning’s introduction to the ways of the manse and a meal taken together in the kitchen, Sarah’s new mistress had set off for the church hall to organise the purvey for Murdo Maclean’s funeral, leaving her young charge with a list of duties to complete by herself: the washing up, bringing in the laundry from the line, some vegetables to peel and the fire in the range to keep stoked.
I can picture Sarah singing to herself in light of her good fortune. But then later, as she came in from the coal shed with a full pail, she heard a commotion at the front door and all hell seemed to let loose. The door swung open and Miss Fraser was carried into the hall in the arms of a tall, fair-haired gentleman clothed in funeral attire. Sarah took one look at her, pale and insensible in the young man’s arms and pointed upstairs to where the bedrooms were. She hurried up after them to open the bedroom door. The man deposited the mistress onto the bed and then held her hand in his, saying her name over and over again, kindly and tenderly, willing her to wake up whilst Sarah could only look on, her eyes out on stalks. At last, he pointed at the doorway and she heard the noises down below. She rushed to the top of the balustrade and was met by Dr Matheson who was taking the stairs two at a time in search of his patient. He disappeared into the room and the door closed behind him. Then, in a bit of a state, Mr Fraser appeared through the front door shouting ‘Send for the nurse!’, followed by Mrs Maclean who should have been at her husband’s funeral tea, and Mrs Gowans who was babbling that Miss Elizabeth had been awful pale when she fainted but it was a common condition in young women of her age and she was sure she would be alright, nothing to worry about. Then Mr Fraser had begged Mrs Gowans to return to the funeral and tell everyone that his sister was perfectly fine, even though he couldn’t have known that she was. She had only fainted, he said. She had been working too hard but everything was under control now that they had some help in the house. Mr Fraser glared at Sarah’s coal-streaked face and hands – looking like naebody’s wean in her dirty apron – and he ordered her to find Mrs Tough. Mrs Tough, who had been the cook at the manse at times in the past, was needed to fill in for a while until Miss Fraser got better. Sarah’s heart was racing as she ran out the door.
She returned with news that the woman in question would be available for domestic duties from the following day. Sarah wasn’t too enamoured with this sudden change in arrangements. She had taken an instant dislike to Mrs Tough and wasn’t looking forward to her arrival at the manse. Mrs Tough had appeared at the door of her cottage with her arms crossed across her thin frame. It was the first time Sarah had been up close to the woman and she didn’t take to her gaunt face with its sunken cheeks, nor to her thin mouth turned downwards in disapproval.
The house was quiet when she entered through the back door following her visit to Mrs Tough. She stood in the hall and listened for signs that people might be present but there was nothing. No one had waited for her to come back or to look after Miss Fraser in the meantime. She stood at the bottom of the stairs and gazed up at the closed bedroom door, wondering what she should do next. Was Miss Fraser alright? Did she need anything? Was it her place, as the scullery maid hired only that morning, to go up and enquire? What instructions had Dr Matheson left after his visit? And what had happened in the church hall?
Sarah’s mind was in a whirl. The grandfather clock ticked loud in the corner, its big brass pendulum keeping time with her pounding heart. A portrait in a huge, gilt frame hung on patterned wallpaper by the parlour door. It was a painting of an elderly man of the cloth from an earlier age and it gave her the creeps, she said. The man fixed her with a cold, dour stare that was set in oils and frozen in time. His eyes seemed to follow her wherever she went. Sarah said that old man terrified her from beyond the grave – that day and every day. Sunlight filtered through a small stained-glass window beside the door and red carpeted stairs led up to the bedroom where Miss Fraser lay all alone, unattended. Sarah said she thought about our house in the Rows: two small rooms with brick-tiled floors and a fire for warmth and cooking; no carpets, no flushing lavatory or water tap; but full of people, young and old living together, getting along and looking out for each other. She shivered in the coldness of that huge house and contented herself that her mistress must be asleep. She decided to return to her place in the kitchen and keep busy – making soup, polishing the range – and see what transpired.
At length, the minister returned. Mrs Maclean had gone home in her carriage and the funeral tea had come to an end. The mourners had left with rosy cheeks no doubt, flushed from the lively conversations and laughter of an afternoon that had been a welcome break in the routine of daily lives that varied little outwith the Sabbath. Mr Fraser appeared in the kitchen to order tea. He towered over his new servant who cowered just as he intended. It had been a long day, he had a sermon to write, he proclaimed, before turning with a swish of his black coat and sweeping off through the house. The door to the study banged loud. That had Sarah fumbling with the china and she just managed to catch the sugar bowl a
s it rolled across the table. There was sugar everywhere and it was expensive so she swept it back into the bowl with her hand before anyone could see then set the tray just as she had been shown by her mistress that morning, and carried it to the door of the study at the bottom of the stairs. The china rattled whilst she waited. When the command to enter came, she laid the tray on the desk.
‘That’ll be all,’ the minister said, examining her over his half-moon reading glasses.
Sarah had to pluck up the courage to ask, ‘Miss Fraser? Is she..? Can I tak her somethin’, sir?’
The minister tutted loud and looked up at the ceiling in the direction of his sister’s room.
‘Leave her,’ he ordered. ‘Dr Matheson prescribed rest. The nurse will look in on her in due course.’
Sarah wanted to know more but nothing more was forthcoming. She made to leave.
‘Mrs Tough’ll be here first thing in the mornin’, Mr Fraser, sir.’
‘Lord save us.’ His eyes rolled upwards. ‘Lord save us all,’ was all he said.
Sarah ran across the hall, her head bowed so she wouldn’t have to see the old man with the ill-faured eyes glower back at her. She closed the kitchen door and breathed a great sigh of relief.
Much later, the doorbell rang just as she had cleared the minister’s table after supper. She opened the door to a well-dressed lady and Sarah recognised her straight away. Miss Melville had been a Sabbath School teacher in the past. All of the children loved her and adored her magnificent hats.
‘I’ve come to visit the lady of the house. I hear she’s rather poorly,’ she said, stepping over the threshold into the gloom of the entrance hall. ‘Can you tell her I’m here to see her?’
‘She’s not at all well, Miss Melville,’ came the minister’s dour voice from the doorway into the dining room. ‘It might not be in her best interests.’