The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  Andra. Brother, son, scholar, right back with two left feet, and good friend. Patient of the Royal Infirmary.

  I knew exactly what Davy would have said about the boot. Braw leather. Fine for them that’s got the money tae pey for sic things.

  Did they give the boy a second thought? Broken jaw, broken nose an’ ribs, bleedin’ in his belly – internal. Severe bruisin’ near enough a’ place an’ a broken wrist. Gey near lost the sicht in yin e’e but it’ll come back, they’re sayin’.

  Had they meant to go that far? Maybe a bit of roughing up had gone further than intended.

  Aye, mebbe.

  And what had Rob to say about it? I couldn’t believe he’d been part of the violence. But he seemed to be involved, somehow. And he had been there in the mill earlier so he knew something of what the gang were up to.

  What did my brother want with somebody like Rob Duncan who surely wasn’t like the rest, had a mind of his own. Davy would have enjoyed bringing him into the fold, I decided, more than he had done with any of the others for whom crime brought its own reward. Corrupting the boy would have been sweet, sullying an innocent whose only flaw was... what? Frustration... or anger... wanting more out of life than the pit had to offer?

  Was that it, Rob? I mouthed my question into the same darkness where he had been with the gang, as if he was still there.

  I reflected on how the dispute over pay and conditions was continuing to simmer. Earlier, Steeny Simpson had dropped into the house for a word with my father. As predicted, the coal masters had waited until the pits went on holiday before announcing their response to the union’s proposal.

  ‘Whit have they said?’ asked Davy, impatient as ever.

  ‘They’re no havin’ it,’ Steeny replied. ‘But wait for it... They’ve put in anither request tae the Board... for a FURTHER reduction in the daily rates... this time doon fae seven bob tae 6/6d. Can ye believe it?’

  ‘I can believe it a’ right. Evil bastards,’ Davy had said.

  ‘Has the union had time tae respond?’ Alex asked.

  ‘No. But I think they’ll want tae proceed wi’ the fower day week, wi’ the threat o’ a strike as a back up.’

  Alex said, ‘It’ll drag oan a’ summer. It’s the stert o’ the holidays. We’ll no ken whaur we are for ages. Coorse, it’s whit they want, tae keep us guessin’ an put the fear o’ God intae a’body.’

  As I sat there in the foul smelling ruin, a monument to a time and a life that was long past, I recalled Davy’s reaction to my father’s words, the shadow that had fallen across his face, the anger that had burned in his eyes. I wondered how long he would wait for matters to be resolved.

  And as I soon guessed, not long at all.

  I ducked under the lintel of a doorway in the opposite direction from where I’d entered the mill. In the narrow space beyond, I edged past a stash of materials assembled by the gang, no doubt, during their robberies at various farms and industrial premises in recent weeks: a bolt of hessian, coils of rope and wire suitable for making tripwires, cans of paraffin and mineral oil, a hammer or two, a mallet, and a spade. I got down on all fours then pushed through a hole in the outer wall of the mill where others had gone before. I crawled under the low branches of scrub hiding me from the track that ran between the Doctor’s Brae and the bridge to Back o’ Moss, coming out like a fox from its den, making sure I wasn’t seen. I walked smartly towards the brae in the darkness. Only then did I realise that my heart was thumping in my chest, like it was fit to burst.

  I came across Rob by himself the following evening – Saturday it was. He was walking along Main Street with his hands in his pockets, looking bored. I stopped further along the street as he kicked a stray stone ahead of him, lifting it into the air with the toe of his boot. He was watching as it arched upwards, a leather football of his imagination that dropped precisely between fictional posts for another goal. Goal! he shouted at the deserted street, raising his clenched fists in the air. What was he thinking? That one day he might make it to a big game at Ibrox? Just now he had to content himself, make do with a local match because money was tight. The weekly Saturday fixture at Rowanhill was more than he could afford at times.

  It wasn’t fair to spy on him but he barely acknowledged me as I came into view. He made another shot at goal before he started his rant. One day he would have money in his pocket, he told me. Then he would have choices and the world would open up. Presently, his mother took all his wages, gave him a shilling or two to himself. She did the same to Sandy right enough so maybe he shouldn’t feel so ill done by. She had rent to pay and food to put on the table. She was always complaining about the price of things, even coal. Yet the coal masters were arguing that the price of coal was low and that was why mineworkers’ wages had to come down. How did that work? Eh? It was all relative, he supposed. When you lived near the breadline, small increases in the price of a loaf or the daily rates going down by as much as a threepenny-bit could have dire consequences for ordinary folk. But the masters hadn’t a clue about what it was like to live like him and his family. The owners had more than enough but thought they needed more. Maggie needed clothes and boots at regular intervals; him and Sandy had to wait till there were a few shillings saved before they got anything so much as a new pair of drawers. Somehow, he fumed, as the elder son of a widowed mother, he’d acquired all of the disadvantages of marriage and none of the compensations. And he’d just about had enough of it!

  Then he seemed to calm down for a bit as he told me how he’d thought about going to the Continuation Classes, held in the evening up at the school. But they had to be paid for up front and, anyway, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate if he went. His heart wouldn’t be in it. Not right then. Maybe later, when he felt more settled in his head. He’d been top of the class as a boy but had to leave the school when his father was killed down the pit. His mother had been broken hearted, not just about the death of her husband but about what it meant for her children who’d lost any chance to stay on in education and better themselves. She’d often told him and Sandy that they should strive for a better life, better than an existence in the damp, cramped Stoneyrigg Rows; going down the pit every day and never having anything extra at the end of the week. She’d told him often as a child there was something better out there and he’d believed her. Of course he knew it was true, she hadn’t been lying, but the accident had taken away any chance of it coming his way. As the elder son he had to leave school, go down the pit to support the family, and it hadn’t helped that his mother had just given birth to Maggie. Maybe that was why he resented the child so much, and his Ma as well – proud Peggy Duncan who got herself in the family way late in life and needed her sons to pay for her keep. It was her fault that he felt the way he did! She deserved the snash he gave her, barking at her, biting her head off when she tried to be nice to him which she ay was. He hated her for being so kind to him. Why couldn’t she turn round and give him a thump like he deserved?

  I stood with my hands in my pockets wondering how long Rob’s anger had been simmering, yet I’d hardly noticed until recently. I understood some of it but not the way he blamed his mother and his sister for the life he had to live. They were hostages to fortune like the rest of us. Besides, I’d found myself quietly envious of Rob at times. He had a lot going for him and his family was well-liked in the village. It wasn’t his mother’s fault he’d gotten mixed up with Davy Birse and his motley crew. That was entirely his own doing, his own choice and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he was deeply regretting it now.

  Rob paused at the top of the Doctor’s Brae, took another shot at goal, the Ibrox crowd chanting his name over and over in his mind. Rob Duncan! Rob Duncan! He missed completely the first time, tried again to no avail. The stone sat there, stubbornly unmoving, whilst the toe of his boot hit the ground hard, jarring his leg in the process. Tears filled his eyes. He bent over double, holding his hip, sta
ring into the road.

  He knew they were waiting for him – the gang – down by the river in the ruined mill with a new plan hatched out of Davy’s anger and impatience, desperate to make a difference and bring about change, and what was called justice for the working man. That’s how my brother would explain it, making virtue out of sin. The others were ne’er-do-weels, followers, content to make mischief at somebody else’s direction, just for the hell of it.

  Mischief?

  Malevolence more like.

  I pitied Rob for the torment I saw in his eyes. Did the image of Andrew Brownlee’s broken body ever leave his mind? The broken nose oozing blood and wheezing snot; a swollen purple slit for an eye; lip bursting outwards like a piece of meat on a butcher’s slab; brown hair congealed with blood; bruised limbs, red and blue and brown, the imprint of boots on Andrew’s leg and on the downy softness of his innocent cheek.

  ‘It haunts me,’ he said, reading my mind. ‘It’s the first thing I see when I wake up in the mornin’ an’ the last afore I get tae sleep at night. If I sleep at a’ that is. He wasnae my freen but he wasnae my enemy either. I hear they words in ma dreams an’ when I wake up in a sweat, they’re there in the pitch-black night.’

  I knew he was walking down the brae towards a rendezvous with evil. Rob knew it too. Whatever Davy had next in mind could not be justified, even though the coal masters had upped the ante, looking for a confrontation. Maybe the owners wanted bother, an excuse to make them look whiter than white to the public. The ball was in their court because the pits belonged to them and they had the money to see out a strike. Their tails were up. Successful in their last request now they were looking for a further sixpence off the daily pay. No hint of a compromise to end the dispute, far from it! They had rejected the union’s four-day week proposal but hadn’t said what that might mean in practice. What would they do to stop the men implementing it? They were keeping everybody waiting because it suited their purpose. That way, the men would know and understand the power the owners wielded over their lives: the lives of ordinary folk like Rob and Davy, Alex, Steeny Simpson, the pals, and thousands of others. No wonder many were angry, hungry for a new order.

  ‘Dinnae gang, Rob,’ I called to him from where I stood at the top of the brae.

  He stared back at me. He’d known all along, deep down, that Davy Birse’s way was not Rob Duncan’s way. He’d made a mistake when he’d let himself get drawn in with him. But there would be consequences if he didn’t turn up at the mill to help with the latest plan.

  ‘Whit dae you ken?’ More a statement than a question.

  ‘Dinnae gang,’ I said again, knowing more than folk gave me credit for.

  And in an instant, to my complete surprise, he turned tail and was marching back up the brae. He would have no more of it. Rob Duncan was better than that, he’d decided. Whatever the gang planned to do that night, they would have to do it on their own.

  I followed him across Main Street, up Manse Lane and into the park. He leapt the stile and hurried up the path by the hedgerow to the head dyke. He climbed the wall before he looked back, casting his eye across the bog and the peat, the fields and the pits far below from where he’d come. The Red Burn snaked through the moss, the mill a dark blot by the deepest pool.

  He had to hurry, he told me just as I came up beside him, breathing hard from the climb. He ran ahead through the sheep on the muir to where the hill curved downwards on the other side. He seemed to know the path well, as if he’d walked that way many times in the past.

  ‘Gang hame, John,’ he called back to me.

  ‘Rob! Wait,’ I shouted, the truth dawning at last.

  But he wouldn’t wait. He wasn’t for listening. He was running down the top field to find her. He knew what he wanted. He wanted to make everything better. It would all be fine again, if only he could see her.

  I sank into the grass and watched him run to her. He was going to find Minn and it made my heart sore.

  Elizabeth

  I became rather sombre after Donald left the party along with his aunt and Dr Matheson. That confused me, sitting there dressed up to the nines with laughter and good cheer all around. I decided perhaps I was missing Donald already but I knew, deep down, it was more than that.

  ‘Shall we have another dance, Beth?’ asked Rose as the music started up again. ‘Donald seems to be taking rather a long time.’

  ‘No thanks,’ I replied, trying not to sound too melancholic. ‘I like you very much, Rose, and you do a fabulous foxtrot but I don’t relish dancing a waltz with you, thank you very much.’

  Rose took the rejection in the spirit it was intended and laughed out loud.

  ‘Glad you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ she quipped.

  I wandered away from the lights and noise of the marquee for a wicker armchair, one of several arranged in the middle of the lawn. I soon found myself staring at the place where a doorway in the beech hedge connected with the front of the house and the tree-lined avenue that led in from the main gate. When Donald Maclean returned, he would emerge from that same doorway, having parked the motor car at the back of the house. I stared at the shadows for what seemed like an age, willing him to reappear. The terrace was bright with electric light from the drawing room. Older guests who were feeling the cold had gathered there but there was no sign of Donald. My gaze returned to the corner of the house. The sky had darkened and the stars were coming through. I stared upwards, searching for the milky way – so vast and mysterious that butterflies fluttered inside me. It all seemed so fixed and permanent till a shooting star flashed across my vision and disappeared over the horizon.

  Someone opened the wooden door in the hedge and my heart skipped a beat. As my eyes strained to see who it was, I asked myself if it truly was Donald that I hoped to see. Or someone else entirely.

  Rose emerged from the marquee and joined me on the lawn. We didn’t speak for a while.

  ‘It’s lovely to be here, don’t you think?’ I said at last. ‘But I keep thinking about what’s out there beyond the gates.’

  Rose was listening.

  ‘The food, the music, the house, the pleasant chatter about nothing of any consequence is... well, jolly good fun. I’ve loved being here in my nice dress... but how can I enjoy myself when I know that my scullery maid lives in two damp rooms with a dozen members of her family? And old Mrs Pow, half deranged because of the loss of her grandson, is only a step away from the poorhouse?’

  ‘I know lots of Mrs Pows, Beth,’ began Rose. ‘You should see the living conditions in parts of our capital city. Huge change is coming, you can be sure of that. People like you and me will see to it... because our eyes have been opened and they won’t be closed again. Yes, it is lovely to be here and celebrate with Phee but you can’t turn your back on what’s out there, beyond the boundary wall. There’s a lot of work to be done and we’ll do our bit.’

  ‘If we get the chance.’

  ‘We will take the chance. We have to make our own choices in life. No one else should do it for us.’

  I smiled in admiration at my good friend: purposeful, intelligent Rose who would soon be a practising doctor in her own right. Strong women like Rose were showing the world what women were capable of. They were an inspiration to others, not just in what they were achieving but that they were achieving it in the face of centuries of opposition and entrenched opinion against women having choices and making their own decisions. I felt privileged to be Rose’s friend, resolved to meet up with her again in the near future to learn from her, and gather ideas to benefit the people of the village. Perhaps Rose could take me to the Hospice where she volunteered, and I could see the good work being done there for myself. But right at that moment, I felt it would be an imposition to grill her about her experiences. She deserved a break and time to relax. Besides, the music was soft, the stars were bright and the night was still young.


  I gazed across the lawn at the large dark edifice of Parkgate House, the ground floor and the terrace lit up and alive with partygoers; servants hurrying back and forth with trays of food and drinks to keep them happy; laughter rippling outward from the marquee.

  Then suddenly, ‘Fireworks!’ called a voice. ‘Look, fireworks!’

  We stared at the roof of the house as the sky exploded with colour. Emerging from the marquee, curious dancers stared upwards in awe. They showed their appreciation in a chorus of ooing and aahing accompanied by a flutter of applause.

  David Melville barged through the small crowd followed by Phee and Isabelle. They stared upwards too, mouths open in horror.

  ‘It’s not fireworks!’ called David. ‘Keep back everyone! Eric! Eric! Come with me!’

  The gathering stood stunned by what they were seeing. The bright colour had become a flickering orange glow and thick smoke billowed upwards from somewhere at the back of the house. Something was seriously amiss. Several men ran after David and Eric who quickly disappeared around the corner, heading to the back of the house.

  ‘Oh dear,’ whimpered Isabelle. ‘Nothing to fret about, I’m sure. Let’s go back in! Please!’ she urged, trying to regain control. ‘Maestro! Play on!’

  Rose turned to me. ‘Stay here, Beth. Look after Phee. I’d better see what’s up, in case someone’s been hurt!’

  I stood helpless in the middle of the lawn, the well-planned order of the celebration evaporating into chaos around me. No one seemed sure about the best course of action – to stay on the grass or hide in the house which might well be about to go up in flames. Suddenly, I could only think of Donald. Had he been caught up in what was amiss? How selfish I had been to let him go off without warning him about the dangers he might meet, especially when he drove back through the night all alone. And for my sake!

  I ran off after Rose, around the side of the house, through the rowans and the rhododendrons. The sounds of panic and confusion reverberated through the night.