by Mary Easson
‘She’s right, in a way,’ began Phee. ‘You’re there to support the work of the nurse, not to organise nursing for every Tom, Dick and Harry, especially those who can’t or won’t find the money for one.’
‘You should have a word with some of our committee like Mrs Birse and Mrs Duncan from the Stoneyrigg Rows. They’ll tell you how hard it is for some people to pay for these things, when they’re unemployed or too old to work.’
‘But there’s insurance to cover that now, Elizabeth. Isabelle’s always going on about the extra money Rashiepark has to pay in National Insurance to cover workers for sickness and so on. Old people get pensions now too.’
‘But they don’t pay out a fortune, Phee!’ I was taken aback at my friend’s lack of understanding but I persevered in trying to explain what ordinary people were up against. ‘There’s been a bit of friction between the nurse and Mrs Birse, ever since the nurse took up her post, in fact. Mrs Birse used to provide nursing services for the village, free of charge. But the nurse has argued against that. She says a nurse should be trained in the latest methods according to the rules laid down by Queen Victoria’s Jubilee Nursing Association. Mrs Birse was the local midwife too. There are moves to ensure that all midwives are trained and certificated now – which is already the case south of the border.’
‘And so they should be,’ exclaimed Phee, crossing her legs. ‘You don’t want an untrained person bringing babies into the world, do you?’
‘You want someone who knows what they’re doing. And Mrs Birse is very experienced. She’ll soon be barred from deliveries and poor women will have to pay for the nurse, which they can’t afford! Understand?’
‘Mmmmm. Sounds like Mrs Birse might be miffed that the nurse has come along and stolen her thunder.’
‘On the contrary, Mrs Birse spoke out in favour of bringing a trained woman here in the first place,’ I explained. ‘But she speaks up for those who can’t afford the nurse. And she thinks it shouldn’t be left to one person, a trained person, to do it all. That person could work with the community to ensure everyone has the best care possible. When you think about it, it’s the family that nurses a sick person back to health, don’t you agree? Think of what could be achieved if all families had the support and advice of the nurse.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with that, Elizabeth. But I can see why you’re cut out for committee work and I’m not,’ admitted my friend.
I ignored her obvious lack of interest in committee matters. It did no harm to inform a member of the Melville family about community affairs. They had influence and might be of assistance in the future. ‘So, getting back to what I was saying – as chairwoman, I believe it’s my job to help everyone on the committee to work together to extend nursing services as far as possible – without upsetting the certificated nurses or the Miss Silvers of this world. Understand?’
‘Totally,’ lied Phee, who decided it was time to turn attention to more frivolous pursuits. ‘Now can we go for a drive and get some air? My head hurts and you need some recreation after all that. You are such a serious young woman, Beth, and I’m not sure it’s good for you. You must have been exhausted after the meeting last night, if the discussion was anything like you’ve just recounted!’
‘Oh, it was tiring,’ I recalled. ‘I felt quite weak after an hour and a half of it. But as I was leaving, the schoolmaster was leaving too. He was coming this way and accompanied me on my way home.’
Incorrigible Phee had a twinkle in her eye. ‘Do you mean Mr Black, Mr Ernest Black, by any chance?’
‘Yes, of course. Who else? I felt quite weak and was glad of his arm.’ I saw her grinning. ‘Oh, stop it! He was coming to see Richard about school business, anyway.’
‘Of course he was, Beth, of course!’ She must have been thinking I was getting over Neil quicker than she had thought possible.
‘Mr Black’s been sweet on you ever since you came to live in this village, as you well know. But you’ve never given him the slightest indication that he might stand a chance. Yet still he holds out a candle for you, hoping that one day you might change your mind and he might, just might, be in with a chance. Last night he happened to be leaving the school at the same time as your meeting broke up... and happened to be going your way. A most fortunate coincidence!’
I blushed severely.
‘Well, enough of Mr Black for the moment. Let’s get into the motor car and go for a drive. We’ve been invited to drop in on Mrs Maclean at Whinbank. I’m sure she’d love to see you looking so well, Beth. And one never knows, if you’re lucky, her nephew might be around to say hello!’
She grinned and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks once again.
Chapter 6
Elizabeth
A few days later, Phee arrived at the manse to take me out for a drive a second time. I protested that I was extremely busy in the house without Mrs Tough – thankfully the woman had gone – and it wasn’t fair to leave a fourteen-year-old maid with so much to do. However, Phee was a difficult lady to put off and, besides, she insisted, Mrs Maclean was expecting us for afternoon tea. Hadn’t I remembered what we’d agreed the previous week? I couldn’t let a poor grieving widow down, now could I? Not when Mrs Maclean needed tea and sympathy and a bit of company to cheer her up having only just buried her dear, departed husband. I would like to believe that I needed to be persuaded but Mrs Maclean’s grief was not, in truth, the motivation for my decision to acquiesce. I removed my apron and ran into the kitchen to have a quick word with Sarah before running past a delighted Phee and quickly dashing upstairs to change into something appropriate for the occasion.
‘Do remember a bonnet!’ she called up after me. ‘The wind will play havoc with your hair otherwise!’
I soon reappeared in a fresh blouse, my hair brushed neatly into place under a straw boater with a bright blue ribbon. A long flowing scarf, tied under my chin, anchored the bonnet into place.
‘You needn’t have taken such trouble,’ she remarked looking me up and down. Then raising an eyebrow, ‘I saw how Donald Maclean looked at you last week. You could be wearing sackcloth and he wouldn’t mind.’
‘You are incorrigible,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s get out of here before someone hears and gets the wrong idea!’
‘Or the right one…’
I hesitated at the door before running back into the kitchen, returning straight away with a neat bunch of flowers, already tied with white ribbon, for Mrs Maclean.
‘Beth Fraser!’ exclaimed Phee, ‘You didn’t need persuading at all! You were ready and waiting to visit Whinbank, you strumpet! ... Lovely flowers by the way!’
We hurried to the pale green soft-topped motor car parked by the church steps on Main Street.
‘Let’s take this top down for a better view!’ she called. Gleefully, Phee pulled the roof back securing it with studs at the back. She handed me a waxed-cotton driving coat and indicated the woollen rug to cover my knees during the journey whilst she donned a pair of large gauntlets to protect her hands and a set of goggles for her eyes. She held out a pair for me but I declined the offer. Hopefully, the windscreen would offer enough protection. The first time we’d driven together, I’d hardly been able to see a thing through the goggles as we’d sped along the highways and byways. Besides, I thought as I climbed up into the red leather passenger seat, they gave the wearer all the allure of a demented bluebottle which was hardly the impression I wanted to convey. I carefully tucked the tartan blanket carefully around my legs ready for the off. Although it was a dry, pleasant June day, with the car open to the elements, it might turn quite chilly, I reckoned. I watched her walk round to the front of the car with the starting handle in her hand and deftly tug till the motor started up.
‘Your talents are many, Miss Melville!’ I exclaimed as Phee climbed into the driving seat beside me.
‘Got to keep up with the times, Miss Fraser!’
she shouted back above the noise of the engine.
‘I’m grateful you didn’t arrive with two horses,’ I called out, remembering Phee’s attempts to teach me how to ride in the past.
‘Not sure how many horses are under the bonnet of this beauty. Twin cylinder apparently. An Albion 16 out of Scotstoun. It doesn’t get out as much since David bought the Rover 12 but I like it. The Rover has four cylinders but a smaller engine capacity and a different braking system. And room for more passengers. I’ll see if I can bring it next time. You’re completely enclosed in the Rover, windows all round so very comfortable and a lovely shade of blue.’
‘I don’t mind this little car at all,’ I insisted, not being remotely interested in the technicalities. ‘I’ll leave the mechanical side of things, and the driving, to you!’
Phee smiled from behind her horn-rimmed goggles. She disengaged the brakes by operating a hand lever. ‘Tally ho, Beth!’ she called out. ‘Hold onto your hat!’
The Albion 16 stuttered and spluttered for a few yards before taking to the road quite smoothly, puttering along Main Street in the direction of Rowanhill. We smiled back and forth at each other, enjoying the journey to Whinbank in our different ways – Phee because she was in control, learning all the while what the car would do under different circumstances as she operated the pedals controlling our speed, and me because I was racing away from Richard and the manse and memories of Neil, brought on by mere proximity to the Smiddy. But it was more than that. I was excited, I realised. It wasn’t simply the thrill of being in the car, with the wind in my face and the countryside rushing by. For the first time in ages, I was excited by what the future might bring, by the unknown, by what joy might lie ahead, just around the corner. Perhaps Phee was right when she said I was too serious at times; perhaps I needed to let myself go a bit, grasp at life and its pleasures for a change.
‘I loved that,’ I called to her when the car drew onto the rutted track leading up to Whinbank. ‘The countryside is so beautiful at this time of the year. Were you able to take any of it in?’
‘Oh, yes!’ replied Phee. The car bounced from bump to hump along the length of the farm road. ‘Of, course, I have to concentrate hard on what the car’s doing but every time I get into the thing, the easier it seems and the more relaxed I feel. It’s exhilarating! And I’m glad you’re enjoying it too, Beth, despite everything you’re having to deal with. Actually, I think it’s doing you the world of good, don’t you?’
She slowed the car to a halt outside the house, a large mid-nineteenth century two-storey farmhouse built in the local style, with a slate roof and a large front door. Another door to one side led into the scullery, the dairy, and the byre where people were clearly hard at work, judging by the amount of clanging and clattering going on. Mrs Maclean appeared at the main door immediately. She welcomed us warmly with smiles and kisses, taking genuine pleasure in my gift of flowers. We struggled out of our driving gear, removed our bonnets, and followed our hostess inside.
Bookcases lined the walls and a patterned Persian rug in vivid colours brought warmth to the drawing room where tea and fancies awaited. Mrs Maclean poured, saying she was glad to see me restored to good health, and we remarked that she seemed to be bearing up very well under the circumstances, though we understood how deceptive appearances could be. She would not be drawn on the subject but instead asked dozens of questions about the manse and Parkgate House and the motor car, what it was like to drive, and what we had seen on our journey from Blackrigg. She didn’t get visitors every day and she was determined to make the most of us, she explained. She grilled me about the flowers I’d brought, knowing I was well-read on the subject of garden history and all things botanical.
I explained, ‘The pink rose buds represent grace. There’s some periwinkle for tender recollections with a few sprigs of rosemary for remembrance and the bright green of feverfew with its white flowers for warmth. The bluebells are passed their best, I’m afraid, but I found some delicate harebells by the roadside for constancy and added some leaves of a particular pelargonium for true friendship. It’s a bit of a mixture but I hope you like them.’
‘You clever thing,’ said Phee, speaking up for Mrs Maclean who was a little overcome by the message her visitor was delivering in her gift of flowers.
I asked about the books lining the walls. They were Murdo’s confirmed his widow, and I was welcome to borrow any that took my fancy. There were quite a few on subjects that might appeal to someone like me who kept the garden at the manse. I nodded eagerly.
When tea was finished, and we agreed that we couldn’t possibly consume another mouthful, Mrs Maclean invited us for a stroll in the garden at the back of the house.
‘Just a short walk,’ she insisted. ‘Down the path to the riverbank and back.’
She took great delight in pointing out the landmarks, described the fields as we passed them, giving their names such as Witches’ Hollow, The Neb and Shaw Park which gave a hint of their long history. We talked about the characteristics of the soil, their aspect and gradient and how it affected their potential, all factors to be taken into account when deciding the pattern of their use from year to year. She had learned it all from her father, she explained. She’d lived at Whinbank since childhood and had come to know every stone and tree, until they were part of her. When Murdo had bought the farm and come to live there, she had taken great delight in passing that knowledge onto him and it brought them close together, as he got to know Whinbank and to love it as she did. But now she was having to give Donald a lifetime’s education in the quickest possible time. He was learning fast, she said, and he was taking to the place – she could tell – which gave her no end of comfort and satisfaction.
‘And isn’t young Mr Maclean in the vicinity today?’ asked Phee, who had been dying to know where he was. ‘We so enjoyed his company on our last visit. Didn’t we just say that very thing as we were driving along, Elizabeth?’
‘Yes, we did,’ I replied blushing profusely, feeling that Phee was being less than subtle. ‘I expect he’s busy. He can’t take tea with the ladies every day, I suppose.’
‘Indeed, my dear,’ Mrs Maclean replied patting my hand. ‘But I’m sure he would have made a special effort to join us, knowing you were coming today. Work must be keeping him away.’
Phee stared at me from behind Mrs Maclean as we studied herons fishing from the riverbank. ‘It must have been important work to keep Donald away,’ she ventured, smiling broadly at me.
We retraced our steps back to the house from the river. Phee explained that she was due at Parkgate for a meeting to discuss the arrangements for her engagement party. She didn’t want to be late but it was a shame to curtail our walk. We strolled in the shade of a line of tall beech trees, admiring the views and the wild flowers that carpeted the footpath, each of us caught up in our own thoughts about life, and the love of our lives. Mrs Maclean thanked us for our visit once we’d returned to the car, said it was kind of us to give our precious time to an old woman like her. She much appreciated it and hoped we’d return soon. Phee tied down her bonnet, adjusted her goggles promising that we’d be back very soon. She gave her personal guarantee and could assure Mrs Maclean that Miss Fraser would be delighted to join her. Phee looked pointedly at me and I nodded my agreement, I have to admit, delighted at the prospect of another visit. We made ourselves comfortable in the car, the engine purring ready to depart.
‘You’re leaving already?’ came a deep voice from somewhere nearby.
Donald Maclean was striding towards us from the direction of the stable with a harness in his hand.
‘I’m afraid so, Donald. My fault,’ began Phee. She flashed a huge smile in his direction. ‘I’ve an engagement party to plan. Remember I told you all about it last time? You will come, won’t you? Invitations to follow soon,’ she promised.
‘We’d be delighted to attend, Miss Melville. Wouldn’t we
, Auntie?’
Mrs Maclean smiled broadly at her nephew.
‘And you can tell us all about your plans for Whinbank,’ I suggested, smiling at the dashing Mr Maclean. I looked towards the arable land, where the ground sloped gently towards the river. Green barley was already turning to gold in patches. It flowed in waves, nudged by a soft wind. ‘Looks set for a fair summer... and an early harvest, Donald.’
‘The corn’s doing well,’ he replied. ‘But it’s a little too early to tell.’ He smiled and looked into my eyes. ‘It doesn’t do to assume anything in this life, Miss Fraser. The day you think you know how life’s going to progress, well that’s the day it can turn on a sixpence.’
‘How true, Mr Maclean,’ I replied, returning his smile. ‘But we must always hope for the best.’
Minn
One of the great pleasures of life on a farm comes in the evening, when everything’s redd up after a long day in the fields, the byre, and the house. When the weather allowed it, the Netherside farm servants would congregate on a bench out by the road. The farm was set on the side of a broad valley, and the views to the north seemed to go on forever in the gloaming of summer evenings. Sometimes we would sit quiet-like, just looking, listening to the lapwings and the larks, breathing in the scent of the flowers in the hedgerows and the ripening corn in the nearby fields. Then before you knew it, the lads were scrapping on the ground or daring each other to impossible feats that could not be denied though common sense begged otherwise.