by Mary Easson
‘Maybe we found out aboot Neil comin’ back fae Canada cause Meg happened tae mention in her letter that she’d seen Neil in the passin’, an it’s naethin’ adae wi’ the Lord or oniebody else forby.’ Sarah had concern written all over her face. She was fourteen and the daughter of a bricklayer so she didn’t feel she had the authority to meddle in anybody’s life, especially in her employer’s life. And she didn’t want to incur the wrath of the minister. Everybody said that he hated Neil Tennant and had driven him out of Blackrigg.
‘Aye, I suppose. We’ll keep quate... for noo.’
Sarah nodded, relieved that I had chosen to see things her way, for the time being at least, and that I wasn’t expecting my wee sister to do anything heroic. Up at the manse, Sarah didn’t feel very brave, she said.
We soon reached the railway bridge on the station road where we stared up and down the track. There was no movement of rolling stock. Everything was quiet. No trains to see, no people at work, no activity of any kind. Although the sun was shining and the evening was pleasant, we felt deflated after our long discussion about love, loss, and longing. We gazed along the railway lines that curved off into the distance, glinting in the sun and never meeting at any point along the way. It was a desolate sight. Then we retraced our steps, slowly.
We came to the small bridge across the burn and looked down at the water, watching the way it gurgled and splashed over the stones as it flowed downstream. Sarah picked up a small piece of wood and threw it in. It disappeared under the road so we hurried to wait for it to reappear on the other side. There it was and it hadn’t taken very long.
We searched the hedgerow for small sticks, got ready to throw them into the water at the same time. I decided that if my stick was first through it would be a good sign. Neither of our sticks reappeared. They must’ve got stuck on the way. Just like real life. Sarah nearly fell in the next time, desperate to see the re-emergence of the sticks.
‘Mine won!’ called Sarah.
I was sorely disappointed. ‘Best o’ three?’
My next stick was first through and I was elated. But, as I made a wish, my entire future happiness now depended on that last small piece of wood.
I studied that stick which was smooth to the touch and bleached by the sun. A small knot near one end resembled an eye, maybe the slanted eye of a lizard, or a large newt. Newts lived in the water most of the time and were good swimmers. That it had the eye of a newt etched on its side could be a sign of the stick’s prowess in the water, I decided. At the agreed moment, I dropped the newt-stick into the stream and made a wish, ran to the other side and watched. My stick emerged first, way ahead of Sarah’s. The newt-stick had won and I was ecstatic.
Sarah looked puzzled. It was only a silly game and I wasn’t normally so competitive. Oblivious to my younger sister’s feelings, I walked up the road as if in a dream, light as air. Surely it was a sign, a sign that I was destined to spend my life with Rob. The message in the sticks was that what I hoped for in life might take a while but I’d be successful in the end. The sun shone brighter and the sound of the birds in the hedgerows was suddenly sweeter. Red campion and cow parsley mingled softly in the grass by the roadside. Blue cushions of low-growing speedwell and forget-me-nots spilled out of the green by my feet. Fair weather clouds decorated the horizon. Good signs were everywhere, I realised. But I wouldn’t be able to tell Sarah what I was thinking. That would break the spell. I’d have to keep to myself the knowledge that Rob Duncan and Minn Graham were going to be together for all time. It was a secret I would keep for as long as was necessary in order to make it happen. I was almost running with excitement when I heard Sarah’s voice calling out to me.
‘Minn, wait! Haud oan. It’s Rob! He’s comin’ up the Station Road!’
I looked round and my heart almost missed a beat. Was it true? Was my future to be revealed as quickly as this? I focused on the lone figure making his way towards me. It was Rob! Even though I was now at the top of the road, I recognised his dark hair and his gait, strong and determined but with his head down as if he was thinking deeply about something, which was typical of him. I would recognise him anywhere, even from a hundred miles. I stopped and waited whilst Sarah walked towards me, a wide smile on her face, happy that she had spotted Rob for me. Then her face darkened as if a cloud had passed overhead. Her mouth turned downwards. She was looking past me, over my shoulder. I looked round.
‘Oh! Hello, faither,’ I said, faltering. He was striding down the hill road flanked by Peter and Gavin, fresh from their visit to the allotment.
‘There’s a bit o’ luck,’ he said. ‘Ma bonnie lassies come tae walk me hame. Come oan you twa, it’s gettin’ ower late tae be oot on the Sabbath. We’ll have a cup o’ tea afore bedtime.’
I took his arm and he led me past the steading, towards Stoneyrigg. Longingly, I looked back down the Station Road.
Rob was nowhere to be seen.
Elizabeth
As part of my rehabilitation – though by then I had almost recovered to full strength – I arranged to visit Phee at Parkgate House, insisting that I could get there under my own steam. It was only a mile or so along the road and I would enjoy the exercise. In fact, I enjoyed the walk so much that I entered the grounds by a side gate and ambled slowly through the shrubbery, extending my time out-of-doors and, perhaps if I’m honest, delaying my arrival at the imposing seat of the Melvilles of Rashiepark.
Isabelle sat alone in the small parlour when Jameson, the old retainer, showed me in. The room had been known as the Ladies’ Room for generations and the decor reflected its use by the women of the house for quiet reflection, reading, sewing, and the occasional bridge party. This was also where they took tea with close friends, or with visitors who did not merit the use of the drawing room. Isabelle occupied a chair at the circular table by the French window which gave views of the terrace and the lawn. Unfortunately, I chose to admire the new painting that hung above the fireplace – an arrangement of fruit and flowers in highly coloured oils by one of the new Scottish artists favoured by Catherine. Thinking of the portrait it had replaced, Isabelle could have cried, she told me. Society beauty and great grandmother, Charlotte Agnes had once graced the room but was now gathering dust in the attic. What an affront to the family line, Isabelle wailed, to be replaced by splodges and swirls representing apples and carnations! She had remonstrated with David about it but he had meekly supported his wife’s choice explaining that carnations represented true love and the apples... well, apples told their own story. How vulgar, Isabelle had exclaimed at the time! And didn’t I agree with her? As I studied the painting, I confessed that I probably would never eat another apple in the same way again. Isabelle was not one who understood humour readily and her scowl made it clear that I had not responded appropriately, in other words, by openly agreeing with her point of view. There was a time when I would have moved heaven and earth to work out what she expected me to say, in order to comply, but those days were long gone and, instead, I complemented Catherine’s choice, saying that the painting did wonders for the room. Sometimes, I could surprise even myself with my pluck.
Dressed in tasteful grey silk, Catherine Melville entered the small parlour and gave me a kiss on the cheek before taking her place at the table opposite Isabelle who acknowledged her with a virtually imperceptible nod of the head. They did not speak as we waited for Phee to arrive. Absentmindedly, Catherine tapped the small timepiece she kept on a long chain round her neck. Isabelle sighed in irritation before turning her ire on her absent younger sister who was always late, who always kept her waiting, apparently. Confound the girl, she muttered under her breath.
I wondered how long it might be before she would be forced to make small talk with Catherine, the daughter of a man who had made his money in trade, and the coal trade to boot. Isabelle did not approve of new money and I noticed how she bristled in her sister-in-law’s company. Unexpectedly, a
fter her marriage to David, Catherine had established herself as the woman of the house straight away, as if she was born to it. Isabelle seethed that the interloper dared to sit in her presence with such confidence, ready to argue about every detail of household management, among other things. And now Catherine was pregnant with David’s child, a possible heir to the Rashiepark estate. Their first child, a sickly daughter, had lived only a few hours. Isabelle had famously told Catherine that she was praying for a better outcome this time, for the sake of the family name.
‘Any news of David, my dear?’ asked Isabelle at last. She patted her auburn hair, perfectly coiled and pinned on top of her head.
‘No, I hadn’t expected to hear from him. They have so much to do now that the reserve battalions have responsibility for coastal defences.’ Catherine was doing her best to hide the hurt she felt at yet another of her husband’s frequent absences from the family home.
‘He seems to relish his little jaunts to play at soldiers with his friends,’ said Isabelle, nonchalantly studying her perfect fingernails. ‘It sounds to me like a jolly good wheeze with the chums rather than serious business,’ she continued, twisting the knife a little further.
‘They’re training hard: artillery practice, lectures in strategy, navigation, and communications. The situation in Europe has everyone’s wind up. But David assures me the army will be ready for whatever comes their way.’
‘He should be here at Rashiepark with the family not playing his army games, my dear,’ Isabelle said with exaggerated – and unconvincing – kindness. ‘These are difficult times, economically speaking, as you are well aware. He should be planning for the future.’ She nodded awkwardly, acknowledging her sister-in-law’s advanced stage of pregnancy. ‘He should be taking more interest in his investments... at home and abroad. The markets are so volatile and there’s more trouble brewing in the coalfields.... the Back o’ Moss Pit cannot afford another stoppage like the last one.’
‘I can assure you that David has everything under control,’ said Catherine standing up to the onslaught against her husband’s good name. ‘He has a good and loyal manager in Roger Stone with whom I meet regularly when David is absent. I am my father’s daughter and am well versed in matters of business.’ Charles Imrie was the main shareholder in the Coal Company which had a dozen coal mines in its portfolio, as well as considerable business interests in related industries.
Isabelle seemed deflated. However much Catherine’s interference in Parkgate House matters irritated isabelle, her sister-in-law’s money and business acumen were proving essential to the future of Rashiepark.
‘Well, I suppose we have David’s army connections to thank for Phee finding a suitable husband at long last,’ she said, changing tack away from the insufferable Catherine, and looking on the bright side. ‘Eric Hyslop seems a fine young man from a good family and he’s mad about horses just like Phee. That’s always an advantage, I find. When two people have similar interests, it can make for a happy marriage. Of course, I’d hoped that Arthur Moffat would have proposed to my sister long ago. Phee and Arthur have known each other forever. And Lady Moffat has been such a good friend of the family.’ Isabelle sighed. ‘A Melville-Moffat marriage would have been quite an affair!’
What an inveterate snob you are, I thought. I much admired Catherine’s dignity in holding her tongue. It would have been easy enough to steal a march on Isabelle by asking if she had any offers of marriage in the offing. No dukes or earls waiting in the wings for Isabelle Melville’s hand? But Catherine wouldn’t dream of it. She wouldn’t stoop that low. It wasn’t her way and Isabelle, though she didn’t realise it herself, would have been far too easy to squash. Instead, Catherine rose laboriously from her chair and rang the bell for Jameson.
‘Let’s have some tea while we’re waiting for Phee. Shall we?’ she said.
‘Coffee for me, if you please,’ replied Isabelle, though as everyone knew, she hated its bitter taste with a vengeance.
After luncheon at Parkgate, I returned to the village where I bumped into Mrs Birse outside the post office. She seemed pleased to see me, as if she had been actively looking for me, which I soon realised was the case. Our recent discussions at the meeting of the Ladies Committee of the District Nursing Association had set her thinking, she explained. Would I like to accompany her to the Rows where she was planning some visits? I could learn first-hand about the difficulties facing the families living there, people we had considered at our meetings, especially those who could not afford nursing care. I knew straight away that she was attempting to recruit me as an ally but I determined, as chair of the committee, to keep an open mind. As we walked together, a feeling of trepidation descended. In all the years I had lived in Blackrigg, I had never ventured into the Rows and I wondered what Richard would say when he found out I had been there, as inevitably he would.
Mrs Birse waved in at the window of the first cottage we came to. A grateful mother greeted her anxiously on the doorstep, thanking her for calling in so promptly. She ushered us in to a small child, wrapped up in a shawl in the box bed whilst several others looked on. Rosy cheeks and a fever had convinced the mother of scarletina, the scarlet fever. Had the child been vomiting at all, Mary asked? Was there a rash? No, replied the mother to both questions, but she was having trouble with her breathing at times. Mary heard it at once, the rasping in the child’s throat then the rolling eyes. She had a good look at the other children in the room, told them to go out into the street but not to go far, to stay away from the other bairns in the village till the doctor had seen them, to check them for symptoms. It could be diphtheria, she said, quite sure that it was. The doctor would come and have her removed to the hospital. It was what had to be done, for the sake of the patient, and every other child.
Next, with me trailing after her, Mary knocked on a door further along the row. We were welcomed in by a work-weary woman, her sleeves rolled up and her face etched with worry. She could see that her husband was getting worse instead of better, she explained, just as an outbreak of ferocious coughing erupted in the back room. Mary had described to me before we came to the cottage that the husband hadn’t worked for nigh on a year. The family’s only income came from the rent paid by three boarders and an occasional hand-out from the Parish. Eviction was always on the horizon – she was lucky it hadn’t happened already since they occupied a Company cottage. With four children and another on the way, the wife didn’t know how she was going to manage. I smiled meekly at two young girls who sat at a table with a small cloth doll. They looked back in silence.
The woman led Mary into the back room where the patient lay. She asked him questions. For a long time, he had assumed it was just the effects of working underground. Everybody reacted to it in different ways, he claimed, speaking through another bout of coughing. He had returned to work a couple of times in the previous year but hadn’t been able to continue, even though the responsibilities of putting food on the table weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had taken to his bed these several weeks past, barely able to eat or get himself to the dry closet at the back of the house. And now there was blood in his spit and he feared the worst. He looked deep into Highland Mary’s eyes and said he was done. She patted his hand and told him the doctor would need to be informed.
The women returned to where I stood with the girls in that airless, cramped, nauseating front room. In whispering tones, the wife asked if it was consumption, as she feared. Mary said it was likely, but the doctor was the one who would know for certain. Would it help if she got in touch with him on her behalf? The woman nodded. Mary stroked the girls’ hair and asked for the name of their doll. Bella, they told her, and Mary said that it was the prettiest name she had ever heard. She told the girls to play outside, shooing them out of the fetid air of their home though the stench of the dry closets was foul after days of warm weather. The woman followed us into the street and thanked Mary for visiting. She felt the
need to explain. Even if the news was bad, she couldn’t afford to send for the nurse or the doctor, not unless it was absolutely necessary. Mary said that it was but she would look in on the family from time to time and told her to take care of herself. She looked down at the woman’s pregnant belly, said to send for her if she could help, if she could help in any way whatsoever. The woman thanked her profusely before going back inside.
The next visit was to old Mrs Pow who lived with Peggy Duncan. She had hurt her leg in a fall, it transpired. I could see that her wound was healing thanks to the care she was receiving from both Mary and Peggy. Mr and Mrs Pow were pensioners and their small pension paid for their keep. Old Tom Pow was picking coal from the bings at that very moment, to earn a few pence extra.
Afterwards, I remember standing outside the door of Peggy’s cottage feeling as if I had spent my entire life until then in a dream, sleepwalking through life, occupying a very different world from this. And I had. Of course, I had seen the Stoneyrigg Rows from a distance, from the top of The Law or the window of Phee’s small motor car. I thought I had understood the difficulties of life in the Rows when I argued with Miss Silver during the meetings of the Ladies’ Committee but now I realised how very little I had actually grasped about the realities of life. It wasn’t just the weariness in the women’s faces or the tiredness in their overworked bodies, the stench from the dry closets or the sound of the man’s racking cough; it wasn’t only the smell in the tiny room where two children played listlessly with a homemade doll, where the fire burned constantly even though it was summertime or the lack of air and light and space I now knew lay behind every door of every row in Stoneyrigg. Of course, it was all of those things together but, more than all of that, it was the look in the eyes of those women that I would remember. The way they looked at Mary Birse as they cried out for help. I would remember the fire burning inside of them, that sustained them in their battle against dirt and disease for the sake of their families. I would never forget their plea for help, just a little help then they would see to the rest. When Miss Silver got on her high horse next time, arguing that the Nursing committee should only discuss those people who help themselves, I would be ready for her.