The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  Then she whispered, ‘Honeysuckle... the bonds of love... in the secret language o’ flooers, Miss.’

  Sarah had remembered that day by the Avon, the day of the Sabbath School Trip four years before, when I had told the girls about the secret language of flowers used by the Victorians. The girls, in turn, had told Neil Tennant, much to his amusement and my embarrassment. I smiled at the memory, glancing out at my garden as I reminisced. It looked wonderful in the heat of that sunny afternoon.

  The doorbell clanged. Sarah rushed to open it. I patted my hair at the back where she had swept it up into a tortoiseshell clasp for me, then I took a quick look at my dress. Mrs Graham had made an excellent job of the alterations. It fitted perfectly at the top and was exactly the right length. I lifted the hem a fraction and examined my grey shoes and stockings before putting on a pair of summer gloves in matching lace. I decided to carry my hat rather than wear it and made my way into the hall where Donald Maclean stood waiting.

  ‘You look beautiful, Elizabeth,’ he said with a warm smile. He held out his arm for me to take.

  ‘It’s kind of you to collect me, Donald,’ I said, nervously slipping my hand into the crook of his arm.

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Miss Fraser, truly a pleasure,’ he replied. ‘Auntie’s waiting outside. And we picked up Dr Matheson and his daughter on the way.’

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Rose Matheson. I believe you are good friends.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ I said. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy today even more than I realised!’

  I gave Sarah a huge smile as I left the manse on the arm of Donald Maclean.

  It was a pity that Richard had been too busy to wish me well or even to greet Donald and show him some common courtesy.

  Judging by the laughter we could hear on arrival at Parkgate, the party was already in full swing in the gardens on the far side of the house. Donald helped Mrs Maclean out of the front passenger seat then drove off to park the car by the stable block at the back, as instructed by a servant. The elderly butler, Jameson, stood in pole position to greet guests and relieve us of the gifts we had brought for the happy couple. He led us into the drawing room where Isabelle was busy welcoming everyone on behalf of the family. She had done her best to persuade family members to assist her in meeting guests as they arrived but, evidently, they had flown the coop, leaving her to soldier on and keep up appearances which she was only too delighted to do. She encouraged us to help ourselves to some champagne from the silver trays set out on the sideboard and explained that we would find everyone in the garden if we cared to go out through the French doors onto the terrace.

  A large white marquee had been set up on the south lawn, providing a base for the musicians and shade, if required, for the partygoers. Garlands of flowers trimmed the entrance, lines of bunting stretched out in all directions, and large urns overflowed with summer blooms. Parkgate House, the seat of the Melville family, looked splendid and Isabelle was well pleased with the results of a few short weeks of fervent planning.

  In the run-up to the day of the party, she had fretted that the weather might soon deteriorate back to its normal state. The cold, dreich grey of an average Blackrigg summer never showed the Melville estates off to good effect, in her opinion. Situated at a relatively high altitude, the lands of Rashiepark were testimony to the toil of generations of farmers who had dug away the peat and made soil where none had existed before, planting shelter belts against the winds, to eke a living out of a harsh landscape. Acres of bog and moss had proved impossible to tame, however, and the bleak wastes of the Black Moss, held in check by Paddy’s Wood, remained a highly visible landmark that was not to everyone’s taste. However, the pleasant weather that had greeted the house guests when they alighted at the railway station persuaded even those who’d visited in the past that this was a delightful place of green fields and pleasant woods; the wild romantic wilderness kept at bay, far off and shimmering in the sunshine. The Perthshire cousins from the land of mountain and flood found Rashiepark tranquil – the moorland soft and gentle compared to the rocky precipices and tumbling streams of home. The London-based family were glad to be out of the smoky city, leaving behind the frantic bustle of shops and traffic, for a short period of rejuvenation in the countryside. And the Hyslops, used to the high rolling hills and fertile plains of a Border landscape, admired the fishing beats and the shooting butts, and the productive pits which were carefully hidden from the house by the judicious planting of trees.

  A vision in black and grey silk with a large feather clamped onto the side of her head by a jewelled clasp, Isabelle strolled the grounds, firmly attached to Charles Imrie. She introduced him as David’s father-in-law, the owner of the highly successful Coal Company, drawing admiring glances from those in the know. From her position on his arm, she surveyed the partygoers who were conversing and laughing in small groups on the lawn or strolling in pairs along the network of garden walkways as they sipped their drinks whilst admiring the flower borders. When Phee and Eric were married later in the year, as they planned, the celebrations would need to be held in Edinburgh, Isabelle had decided. Probably St George’s for the ceremony, and the North British for the wedding breakfast. Parkgate House could never look as good again as it did that sunny afternoon, and it would be a shame to spoil everyone’s memory of a perfect day by trying to bring the same guests back there at the onset of a Scottish winter.

  I settled with my good friend Rose Matheson into an arbour by the garden wall, enjoying the shade and relative peace and quiet away from the music and the constant chattering of voices. Rose had admired my dress earlier, reminding me of the day we had spent shopping together. I said that I was glad I had taken the plunge and made the purchase when I had, even though it had taken a substantial chunk out of my limited savings. It had saved me a great deal of trouble when it came to choosing something to wear. I glanced at Rose’s plain attire: a simple black ankle-length skirt and a pale-pink cotton blouse with long mutton-sleeves and high necked, without frills or embellishments of any kind apart from a neat tie of grey striped fabric held at the neck with a gold pin. Rose saw me looking.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘No frills or flounces, even on an occasion such as this?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m not criticising you for it,’ I replied.

  ‘I don’t have the time, or the inclination these days. Another year or so and I’ll be fully qualified – a practising doctor. I spend most of my time on my studies, and at the hospital. And I volunteer once a week supporting Dr Inglis and Dr MacDougall who do great work, offering care to poor women. I so admire what they do.’

  ‘You found your vocation then, Rose?’

  ‘Funny how things turn out, isn’t it, Beth? The last time I was here, I was quite a different person altogether.’

  I studied my friend as she stared off across the garden to the house. Was she reliving previous visits she had made there in her younger, less experienced days? Her long dark hair wound down her back in a loose plait and a straw boater shaded her grey eyes from the brightness of the sun. I could still see that younger Rose – her pink cheeks and full mouth with its ever-present, pleasant smile – but there was also a hint of sadness in the shadows around her eyes. I followed her gaze across the lawn to where David Melville stood conversing, his heavily pregnant wife on his arm.

  ‘You don’t regret the path your life’s taken then?’ I asked, guessing what the answer was going to be regardless of the truth of the matter.

  ‘Hardly! Can you see me in Catherine’s shoes? No, she’s welcome to her role as wife and mother-to-be.’

  I could have seen you in that role at one time, I thought, remembering when Rose and David had been romantically linked. I had seen something in David Melville’s face when he had greeted Rose earlier, something that he had found impossible to hide; whilst Rose had responded cordially, unwilling or unab
le to look at him directly.

  ‘Things often turn out for the better,’ she mused, still following David with her eyes as he mingled with the guests. ‘Eventually,’ she conceded after a long pause.

  ‘Phee’s life took a sudden turn,’ I began, changing the subject. ‘She seems very happy with Eric, or Captain Hyslop, as she calls him.’

  ‘They’re well suited... and he seems to adore her... which is a good start,’ agreed Rose. ‘I suppose something told her he was the one. All those years waiting for Arthur Moffat and suddenly she takes the plunge with the dashing Eric. Good for her, I say. Following her heart... in a completely different way from me, of course... but she’s made a choice and she’s following it through.’

  ‘I hope they’ll be happy together. It’s funny though, I never ever saw Phee as the marrying kind, to be honest. Too high spirited and wilful. But there you go.’

  Rose turned to look at me directly. ‘And you, Miss Fraser? What about you? I’ve seen how the delectable Donald Maclean’s been following you around all afternoon! Do you have something to tell me?’

  I blushed severely. ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘Do you see him, Beth? Up on the terrace?’ she teased. ‘He’s looking over in your direction right now, even whilst pursued by voluptuous Violet from Perthshire. Look!’ She gave a wave and Donald waved back. ‘Look, Beth! Look!’

  I couldn’t look. ‘Stop it,’ I pleaded. Then after a long pause, ‘But he is very nice, I have to admit.’

  We gave each other a hug.

  ‘Let’s go and find Phee, shall we?’ Rose suggested. ‘She’s been stuck to her captain like glue, all afternoon. Let’s prise her away from him for a bit. They’ve got their whole lives ahead of them, after all. Surely she can spare her old friends a few minutes of her time!’

  An afternoon of canapés and drinks on the lawn merged seamlessly into a light supper buffet served in the marquee as the shadows lengthened. Isabelle, no doubt, prayed that the subject of the recent security scare around Parkgate would not raise its ugly head to spoil the day. However, it was inevitable when Roger Stone arrived on the scene, bandaged and wheelchair bound, and pushed onto the terrace for all to see by David who had decided that his factor should come down from his room to join the party. Mr Imrie assured everyone that there was nothing to worry about. He had personally appointed several good men to see to security around the grounds.

  As the guests tucked into the magnificent spread provided, washed down by fine wine, thoughts of the criminal classes couldn’t have been further from their minds. Conversations revolved around the frivolous: fashions, travel, mishaps of all kinds (especially relating to fashion and travel); motor cars and trivial pursuits such as bridge and tennis; and more serious topics, namely farming matters, politics, industrial relations, and the rise and (especially in the current climate) fall of share prices in rubber and other commodities.

  ‘Talking of fashion misadventure, Isabelle,’ called out a London cousin, twice removed, after an afternoon of too much fruit punch, ‘Where on earth did you acquire your get-up?’

  Conversation ceased and many heads turned in Isabelle’s direction.

  ‘I said,’ continued the cousin, much more loudly this time, ‘Where the hell did you get that bloody disaster of a frock you’re wearing, Isabelle?! And what’s that on your head? Something dead by the looks of it!’

  No amount of shooshing could turn back the clock. The words were out and Isabelle had heard. She looked hurt but drew herself up to her full height as she patted the feathered concoction in her hair.

  ‘Are you going to a funeral, my dear?’ slurred the cousin before Isabelle could cut the woman dead. ‘I’ve seen less black silk on a horse-drawn hearse, for the Love of God! It’s supposed to be a bloody party!’

  ‘This garment,’ began Isabelle, hiding her fury as best she could, ‘has come straight from Paris, I’ll have you know, Maud! This season BLACK is in vogue. Don’t think we don’t know anything about fashion up here in the sticks when we have the finest of department stores and emporia on our doorstep, only a train ride away from here in Glasgow, second city of the Empire.’

  No one quite knew where to look and toyed instead with the salmon mousse. Maud was being very rude but, given the severity of Isabelle’s costume, she possibly did have a point.

  Maud blew a drunken raspberry and several guests couldn’t help but snigger.

  ‘You may laugh,’ retorted Isabelle, holding her head high like a ruffled black swan, ‘But according to Miss Fitt of Les Modes de Paris in Sauchiehall Street you’ll all be wearing black by the end of the summer! Mark my words!’

  The more superstitious in the audience looked horrified, as if someone had walked over their grave. Phee gave a small squeal, rolled her eyes upwards then hurried over to the musicians who had paused between sets.

  ‘Do start up again soon,’ she pleaded. ‘Before they start throwing the jelly at each other!’

  Eating, drinking, and conversation soon got underway again and the spat between Maud and Isabelle was put to one side. Phee and Eric took time to work their way around the assembly, thanking everyone for their good wishes and kind gifts, and for gracing the occasion with their company. It had been such a lovely day, one they promised never to forget. When asked if they had set a date, they remained coy but admitted that they hoped to be married before the year was up. People would find out in due course! They hoped everyone had enjoyed themselves at the party and explained that dancing in the marquee would begin in about an hour, leaving time to freshen up in preparation for the marathon ahead.

  Mrs Maclean wished Phee every happiness in her future life with handsome Captain Hyslop. He looked like such a nice young man, reminding her of her younger days when she had first met her own husband. All at once, she became quiet and confessed she was rather tired. She gently patted Phee’s hand, said she didn’t want to spoil the party but hoped that Donald might take her home quite soon. Dr Matheson agreed that old age didn’t come itself, and if he could be dropped off in Rowanhill after Mrs Maclean had been returned to Whinbank then he would be most grateful. Donald got up to leave, courteous as ever, saying that he would fetch the car round to the main door in a few minutes, reassuring Rose and myself that he would be back promptly and we could dance the night away for as long as we wished. He would make sure to take us both home at the end of the night.

  No one could have missed the fact that he was smiling at me as he said it.

  Chapter 12

  John

  In a fankle of black scrub, the ruined mill stood silhouetted against the gloaming like a solitary jagged tooth in an old crone’s mouth. Dark shadows lengthened around the fringe of stunted trees and bushes by the burn. Rob was walking up ahead into the brilliant orange glow that was melting outwards across the sky but I hung back. He slowed down, looked round, back and forward along the path. He squinted through the wind-hewn hedgerow below the cottages up on the ridge, seemed to be scouting the riverbank for folk who might be about.

  The loud calls of startled birds above the rush of the stream were the only sounds.

  Then I saw him part an opening in a dense curtain of bramble, duck low and disappear out of sight.

  So that was their hidey-hole, I guessed, more sure than ever that my friend had been drawn into something beyond his control. I decided to return later and have a look for myself.

  Though the days were warm, the nights could be cold with no cloud to keep in the heat of the daylight hours. And so it proved. I sat shivering under the bridge to Back o’ Moss with the sounds of the burn loud in my ears, grating on my nerves while I waited. From my place on the opposite bank, I had a good view of the mill. My mind filled with the surge of the river, a hundred rushing thoughts and questions till I could wait no longer, praying it was late enough to enter without being seen.

  Dipping through the veil of bramble, I was confr
onted with a stone wall that offered no obvious way in. It towered above my head towards the starlit sky. I had no option but to wrap an arm round the end of the wall and dig my fingers into a slot between two blocks of stone, taking all my weight in my hands before swinging round over the flowing water whilst hoping for the best. Momentum pulled me into the ruined building where shadow and damp emptiness awaited. I crouched on the ground, stared into the blackness, letting my eyes adjust, listening to the squeal of the bats in the broken rafters. Though I worked in similar conditions, I was half-scared to death without the closeness of my workmates and the familiar sounds of the pit. When I was sure nobody else was about, I scrambled over a tumble of stone into the small dark lair that was concealed from the outside world. Only then did I dare light the inch of candle I had brought in my pocket. I could only imagine the scene when Rob had visited earlier, the failing light of the setting sun penetrating the holes in the roof, down into the dank depths where Davy and his cronies must have been waiting; each face a skull, gaunt and pale in the shadows, staring back at him.

  I moved around the inner sanctum of their den, shadows circling me and my small light. No sign of a fire – the smoke would alert passers-by; cigarette ends ground into the floor; an empty bottle of whisky and the broken glass from countless others smashed in fury and intoxication. High up in a recess in one wall was a single leather boot. It sat like an ornament on a mantelpiece, a trophy awarded for some sporting triumph maybe, or something more sinister. I held it, touched the studs along the sole, felt the softness of the leather. On the ground, half hidden among the dirt and the pigeon droppings, lay a cap. I picked it up, sensed the love of the mother who had bought it for her son, and saw the name sewn into the crown: Andrew Brownlee.