by Mary Easson
She was making a fresh pot of tea when another knock came to the door. She glanced at the rest of us but no one gave any indication they were expecting a visitor. Davy peeked out of the window and relaxed, too obviously relieved for it not to go unnoticed. It was Jimmy White, the grocer. Nothing to worry about. My mother opened the door and was presented with a box.
‘Courtesy of the Brownlees along at Bankheid,’ said Jimmy cheerfully. He leaned into the room, doffed his cap, and smiled at us sitting round the table. ‘Whit wid we dae withoot Highland Mary, eh boys?’
She thanked Jimmy before closing the door then placed the box on the table and we craned our necks to see what it contained.
‘They shouldnae have bothered,’ she said as she inspected the contents: various jars of jams and pickles, biscuits and dried fruits, and a big side of cooked ham the likes of which had never graced her table before. She retrieved a folded piece of paper from the bottom of the box. It was a note from Mrs Brownlee, thanking her for caring for Andrew after he had been attacked when there was no one at home to look after him. Andrew was still in hospital in Edinburgh but he wasn’t as badly injured as they’d first feared. He was going to make a full recovery in due course. My mother had tears in her eyes as she folded up the note, tucking it behind an empty tin on the mantelpiece.
‘I dinnae ken hoo some folk can be sae rotten,’ she said remembering the state she had found the boy in when she’d arrived at Bankhead Cottage that evening. ‘Just as weel you laddies were there tae help him,’ she said proudly, turning to me and Jim.
‘Some folk have plenty,’ said Davy grudgingly, referring to the box of groceries. He lifted up one or two items our family could never have afforded in a month of Sundays. ‘Mair than enough, they can gie it awa’.’
‘Ye’ll no be havin’ onie then,’ said Alex. ‘In case ye choke oan it.’
‘The world’s ill-divided is a’ I’m sayin’,’ countered Davy through a mouthful of pancake and strawberry jam. ‘The rich have got whit’s comin’ tae them.’
Alex shook his head. Our mother gasped.
‘Andra Broonlee niver did oniebody onie herm. He didnae deserve the hammerin’ he got the ither nicht,’ she said, horrified.
‘Folk are sayin’ Andra was battered ‘cause o’ whau his faither is,’ said Jim.
Alex shrugged and shook his head. In common with the rest of the community, he didn’t know but he had his suspicions. It was a reasonable conclusion to draw.
‘I’ve plenty time for the likes o’ Mr Broonlee,’ he said. ‘If it wasnae for him, I would be deid an awa’ b’ noo. He kept up the rescue when the roof came in ablow ground and killed three ither boys. But he kept it gaun as lang as he could, an’ risked his ain life an a’.’
‘He toadies tae Imrie an’ does his biddin’,’ retorted Davy as he leaned back on his chair and spat a large blob of phlegm and venom into the fire. Sneering, he quoted scripture in support of his point of view, ‘The sins o’ the faithers shall be visited upon the sons.’
My mother glared at him like she hardly knew him at all. He was a hard case with a hard heart. He had a big mouth with several teeth missing, a scar down one cheek and a squint nose, all evidence of a hard life and the many fights he had gotten into. He had a permanently torn face that only a mother could love and, if she was honest, even she must have found that difficult at times.
‘Onieweys, whit are they sayin’ aboot yon business?’ continued Davy, biting into another pancake, sounding casual. ‘Has the laddie spoke up aboot whau jumped him? Have they got whau done it?’
‘No yet, no as faur as I ken,’ said Alex. ‘The wee laddie Broadley says there were three but he didnae ken them, they’d their faces covered. A’ the polis have got tae gang oan is that yin o’ the Broonlee lad’s fitba’ boots is missin’ – alang wi’ his bunnet.’
‘Yin boot’s missin’? Jist the yin? Are they’re lookin’ for somebody wi’ the yin leg!? No monie yin-legged criminals aboot here!’ Davy roared and laughed at his own joke but nobody joined in.
‘Yin leg or twa, I’d like tae gang a couple o’ roonds wi’ them when they’re caught.’ Alex glared at him.
‘Dinnae look at me!’ he said, showing offence. ‘Nuthin adae wi’ me, yon.’
Alex lifted his spoon and pointed it at Davy’s face. ‘Gled tae hear it.’
Davy nodded. He thought he was a hard man but his father was still a force to be reckoned with. It was time to change the subject.
‘Onie word fae the union aboot the dispute, faither?’
‘Naw, no yet. They’re still waitin’ oan the coal owners makin’ the next move. A fower day week tae control supply an’ put up prices is still oan the cards but the owners’ve no indicated yin wey or the ither whit they’re gaunnae dae aboot it. I expect they’ll be haudin oan till Friday afore they speak up – when the pits gang oan holiday fur the summer. It’s an auld ploy, tried and tested. They’ll haud oan till the last meenit an’ the men cannae git the gither the same, tae discuss their response.’
‘Whit we need is Robert the Bruce,’ I said like a fool. I could have kicked myself but I loved the stories of Scottish history.
‘Robert the Bruce?!’ said Alex loudly. He didn’t try to hide his contempt for me.
‘Robert the friggin’ Bruce?!’ exclaimed Davy half-laughing.
Mother told them to leave me alone. Maybe I had a point.
‘Aye, it was his anniversary the ither day. Five hunder year. Folk’ve been celebratin’ the triumph o’ the oppressed ower the oppressor.’ I was convinced of The Bruce’s relevance and pushed on. ‘There’s been celebrations in Stirlin’ an’ Edinburgh. Dan Potts says they had a special service in the kirk here in Blackrigg.’
‘Oh, aye. They’ve been celebratin’ freedom fae the Yoke o’ Tyranny, I hear,’ said Alex, ‘and their love o’ Liberty.’
‘Aye, folk are fair taen oan wi’ the story.’ I was pleased that my father had heard about the celebrations too and was glad I’d made a contribution deemed worthwhile to the discussion.
‘The same folk that were hingin’ aboot the station the ither day, waitin’ for His Majesty tae gang by on his wey tae Glesgae? Waitin’ tae see whit colour frock the Queen had oan? Was it gonnae be white or was it gonnae be yella? Hopin’ she’d catch a glimpse o’ them an’ mak their day. They same folk?’
‘Aye...’ I was suddenly unsure, my heart sinking. I knew when I was about to be ambushed by my father’s cynicism.
‘The same folk that had tae be moved oan efter an oor when they kent the royal train had went by oan the Breich line an’ wasnae gaun through Blackrigg at a’?’
Davy and Jim started to laugh. Mother was trying hard but she couldn’t control a snigger. She had heard about the disappointment in the Co-op earlier in the week, she said. Mrs Gow and the Widow MacAuley had been in high dudgeon at the back of the bread queue.
‘The same folk that’ve hired yin o’ Brogan’s charabangs tae gang ogle at the oppressors when they visit their auld palace in Lithgae, in a week’s time?’ continued Alex.
Davy was bent double. He could hardly control himself.
My face must have been puce and I felt yon size.
‘So much for freedom an’ liberty, eh? The triumph o’ the oppressor ower the oppressed, mair like. In a white frock an a’! Victory complete!’ Alex slapped his hand down on the table.
‘Leave John alane,’ ordered my mother. ‘It’s no his fault folk are sae stupid.’
Davy got up, reached for his bunnet to go out. Before I knew it, he’d walloped me round the ears with it.
Mother gave a loud tut.
‘See thon, laddie,’ said Davy, pointing his bunnet in my direction as he opened the door. ‘When thon laddie was born, they threw the wrang bit awa’!’ He slammed the door and his laughter could be heard all the way down the street.
And I
hear it yet all these years later, and I feel his scorn like a knife twisting in my stomach, even after all that has happened in between.
Chapter 11
Elizabeth
As a frequent visitor to the manse, Ernest Black became a fixture in my life soon after my arrival in the village. We did not spend much time in each other’s company because he was there to speak with my brother about matters pertaining to the school. But even without the insight that lengthy conversation brings, I soon decided that I much admired his wisdom, brought on by years of careful study and contemplation. From time to time, he would leave a text for me to read and it was through these readings more than any other method of communication that I came to know Ernest Black as a man of honour and independent mind. I would have liked to spend more time in his company, debating points of principle and philosophy but any discussion we had was limited to a brief interaction at the door or when I served him tea or supper in Richard’s company. In great part, I looked forward to his visits because I felt he might be a positive and ameliorating influence on my brother’s dour, unwavering interpretation of the Scriptures. I suppose I hoped he could turn him into a much kinder, more forgiving soul though I hoped in vain. I expect Ernest must have relished the opportunity for debate about theology, morality, and educational matters but I am sure he wondered at times whether Richard had ever read further than the end of the Old Testament.
On one such occasion – a few days before the engagement party – when I took tea into the study, the schoolmaster’s glum face spoke of his disappointment at the minister’s intransigence over the important matter he had just raised with him. As I discovered – though the detail was only made clear to me later – he had approached Richard, the newly appointed Chairman of the School Board, to enlist support in asking the parish council to agree to the provision of school meals for the children of striking miners should the latest dispute escalate, as it would in all likelihood by the end of the summer. Ernest had reminded him that the council’s support of the children during the 1912 strike had been essential for their welfare, especially since the dispute had lasted two long months. Several families had been close to destitution by the time the men had returned to work and the children’s suffering had been minimised by the kindness of the ratepayers on that occasion. However, Richard had argued vehemently against the proposal this time round. In his opinion, the previous strike had been prolonged by such misplaced charity and he did not believe it was the job of either the school board or the parish council to support one side of the dispute against the other since it smacked of political bias and favouritism. Ernest had been unable to demolish the minister’s strongly constructed defence against the forces of dissent and anarchy that, he had claimed, were at work all around, at home and abroad. When he had started to quote from the Bible, specifically Suffer the children to come unto me, Ernest must have closed his eyes in despair, realising that he was on a hiding to nothing and would be better to approach other members of the board and the parish council in support of his proposal.
When I showed him to the door, he seemed quite down-hearted and I could not help but apologise on my brother’s behalf. I encouraged him to pursue his mission and not to give up, and I resolved to find a way to help bring matters to a successful conclusion if I could. That instance sticks in my mind as a seminal moment, not only because of the impact my resolution would have much later on Ernest and myself, but also because of the way Richard looked at me from the study once his visitor had gone.
Such anger!
I had picked up the morning’s mail from the mat – something he liked to do himself – and he grabbed the letters out of my hand with indescribable malice. Without thinking I swiped them back, selected the envelope addressed to me, and threw the rest at him before marching into the parlour where I wept like a child – but only briefly. Though every confrontation cost me dear at the time, it was another small step forward in the battle for myself.
I leaned with my back against the parlour door and opened the long-awaited invitation to Phee’s garden party. As I placed the card behind the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, I swithered about whether to keep it to myself and have Richard guessing who had written to me but, since he wasn’t being invited, it gave me considerable satisfaction to place it in full view. He had already grilled me for information about the celebration, clearly expecting to receive a personal invitation, so he would be upset at being excluded from one of the main events in the Blackrigg social calendar. But what did he expect? He wasn’t exactly welcoming when Phee came to see me at the manse. Did he really think that being a minister of the church brought an entitlement to loyalty from those he treated badly?
When I think back to that time, I realise how much Sarah’s happy disposition and down to earth outlook kept my own view of life on track. Somehow, without knowing the detail of her employers’ differences, she always said the right thing and helped me keep my troubles in perspective when Richard was at his worst and I was at my lowest, about to fall into the abyss. For all the material poverty of her circumstances, Sarah was gentle, kind and constant; her hopeful outlook was firmly rooted in her upbringing, it seemed, and I understood something of where this came from when I made my next visit to the Rows – to meet Sarah’s stepmother who happened to be a skilled dressmaker.
That morning the Graham home was devoid of children. The older ones had been tasked with looking after the infants and had taken them for a walk. Jean Graham had only just finished scrubbing the floor of her small home and was sitting on a wooden chair at the door, unaware of my approach in the company of Sarah. She sat with a cup of water, wiping the sweat from her brow, engaged in a shouted conversation with several other women up and down the row. The fine weather permitted the mid-morning break from their labours to be taken in the open air, and the gentle southerly wind had temporarily removed the stench from the closets. Sarah claimed you got used to the smell, when you had stayed in the Rows long enough, but when the wind blew in the right direction you were always aware of the difference it made.
The women seemed taken aback when they realised I was there in their midst but not a toothless Mags Cherrie who stood in the middle of the street, her baby of one week wrapped in a tartan shawl and secured firmly to her ample bosom. She cackled loudly as she related the details of her latest confinement. It was like shelling peas, she reckoned, the more practice you had the quicker you got. But, God, the pain never lessened! She looked down at the tiny bundle strapped to her chest, her eyes brimming over with love for the child. Another mouth to feed and prices going up all the time. Still, there might be more to come in the future, she confessed, winking in my direction. Who could tell? She counted herself blessed, however, much blessed by a large and happy family and wouldn’t wish for things to be otherwise. Then she picked up her washing basket and bid good day to her neighbours. There were floors to sweep and windows to wash, she announced. Couldn’t sit about gossiping all day. Her man brought home more dirt than all of her children put together, she declared, waddling off, laughing all the while.
Inside the Graham home, Jean agreed to take on the challenge of transforming an old-fashioned dress of mine – an extravagant purchase made in haste – into something worthy of a grand affair at the Big House. She ordered me through to the back room to put it on. Sarah went ahead of me, proudly pointing out the built-in bed she shared with her elder sister, and the other beds where the boys slept top-to-tail and the girls kept each other warm under the window. She saw me looking around the cramped space she shared with eight children and an elder sister when she was home from the farm where she worked.
‘This is ma hame, Miss. This is where I bide.’
‘It’s a happy home, Sarah,’ I told her. I could tell.
When she left the room, I put on the dress but I could hardly bear the feel of the fabric as soon as it touched my skin. The tiny glass beads, sown delicately into the bodice and across the arms, gli
nted in the daylight penetrating through the small window. I gently lifted the tiers of soft tulle that made up the overskirt to examine the intricate pattern of embroidery around the edges. I deeply regretted visiting the Rows with such a fine garment but here I was, and there was nothing that could be done about it now. How thoughtless I’d been, to bring the dress here and rub their noses in it.
Jean appeared at the door with a box of pins in her hand, wondering what was taking me so long. She found me close to tears.
I looked down at the dress and then at Jean. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.’
‘Nothin’ tae be sorry aboot, Miss. I’ll charge ye the goin’ rate.’
Jean Graham was a cup-half-full kind of person, happy with her lot. She did not resent what others had just because she didn’t have the same. She had more than enough to compensate for the lack of a pretty gown.
On the day of the party, I stood at the kitchen table wrapping my engagement present to Phee: a botanical drawing of honeysuckle created by my own fair hand. I did not have funds at my disposal to compete with the expensive gifts that she would no doubt receive from her family and old school friends so I had opted for a very personal and unique present of my own making. With professional framing the drawing had been shown to good effect and, as it disappeared into the white and silver wrapping paper, I hoped that Phee would appreciate it and understand its significance. Richard, of course, criticised my choice, saying that I was vain to think that a sketch from my own hand made a suitable gift – even if it was coloured and labelled with great care and accuracy to the same standard as any of the drawings he had seen in libraries and botanical gardens.
Sarah, on the other hand, praised it to the hilt, marvelling over my rendering of the pink and yellow flowers in various stages of maturity along a slender, winding stem embellished with rich green leaves. She read the labels out loud, Lonicera or Honeysuckle; leaves opposite: oval to elliptical; five long stamens; round, twining stems; red berry, poisonous.