The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  In the days since Phee’s engagement party, I had already visited the Macleans several times and Richard was threatening to put his foot down. He had begun to complain about the quality of Sarah’s work in the manse. As he drew his finger across the furniture, bemoaning the imaginary dust, or when he pointed to invisible tide marks on the crockery, he blamed me for inadequately supervising a servant who clearly, in his opinion, required careful watching. I had been shocked but not surprised at the lengths he would go to in order to keep me in line and I knew that I would have to be careful that loyal, hard-working Sarah would not fall victim to his petulant power games.

  In truth though, as Richard’s behaviour got worse I grew stronger and more determined in my resolve to stand up to him and make my own decisions about how I would live my life. I had become very fond of Donald and looked forward to seeing him on my visits to the farm. Even if he couldn’t join me when I dropped by, the sight of him in the distance or a wave across the stackyard when he was supervising in the stable, gave me no end of happiness. Regardless of Richard’s complaints about how my visits to Whinbank were being perceived, I dug in my heels, ignoring his protestations about my reputation and how it reflected on the church.

  One Friday, I turned north out of Rowanhill and let the bicycle take off down the steep slope of the drove road towards the river several miles off in the distance. I loved to feel the wind in my hair and against my skin as I sped along, whirring past the hedgerows and the fields, a blur of green and gold. In no time at all, I reached the rutted track that led up to the farmhouse where I knew Mrs Maclean and Donald would be waiting for my visit: Mrs Maclean in the kitchen making drop scones on a girdle, and Donald in the parlour, his arm in a sling, with one eye on a book and another on the view from the window, waiting for me. When I dismounted, not wishing to endure the bumpy road ahead, I had started to push the heavy bicycle along the track and was surprised to see Rose coming towards me.

  ‘I got back from town yesterday, sooner than expected,’ Rose said anticipating my first question. ‘And I thought I’d visit my patient to see how his arm was doing,’ she added, accurately predicting my second.

  ‘And is Donald’s arm healing well?’

  ‘Everything seems to be in the correct place and, with some careful exercise, he’ll be as good as new in a few weeks. His recovery is testimony to the excellence of your nursing skills, Miss Fraser.’

  I brushed off her compliment. ‘He can’t bear to be out of action. Though I think he’s out and about a lot of the time, watching everybody at work and joining in as best he can, one-handed.’ I looked around for a place to sit in the shade of the trees that lined the track.

  ‘Shall we sit for a minute? I’m quite out of breath.’

  Rose sat on the grassy verge beside me. She picked a stem of forget-me not and studied the tiny, delicate flower, as blue as the sky that day and pierced by a bright yellow centre. She reached for some daisies, added a sprig or two of speedwell and some white clover, constructing a tiny posy in her fingers. She held it out for me to admire.

  ‘Forget-me-not speaks for itself,’ I told her, ‘And goes perfectly with the clover: think of me; the daisy means innocence and the speedwell is fidelity. All in all, quite appropriate, I’d say.’

  ‘For you or me?’ Abruptly, Rose threw the flowers into the long grass.

  She stared after them, unblinking, thoughtful, almost frowning.

  ‘About a month.’ She studied my puzzled face. ‘Wasn’t that your next question? How long will I be staying in Rowanhill?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Until mid August or thereabouts, then I’ll go back to finish my training. I’ve asked father if I can follow him on his rounds and sit in on his surgery while I’m here. Why miss an opportunity to learn from an old hand?’

  I agreed. ‘Judging by how you conducted yourself on the night of Phee’s party, you already know what you’re doing. Will you be visiting your other patient? Or should I say patients?’

  I watched Rose for a reaction but there was none.

  ‘I mean Mrs Melville, of course... and the new baby.’

  Rose looked away. ‘I’d like to. Do you think I should?’

  ‘Of course you should. You’d be welcomed with open arms after what you did, delivering the baby when there wasn’t time to send for the nurse. Catherine had such a hard time of it, all hell let loose at the back of the house, the guests in a state of shock, and the baby intent on making its way into the world. Poor Catherine!’

  ‘And the child’s doing well, is he? Have you heard? My father seems to think so but it’s a few days since he called on them.’

  ‘According to Miss Shanks at the post office, he’s thriving. And very little passes her by.’ I studied my friend. ‘David Melville was grateful for what you did, Rose. I’m sure he’d like to thank you properly, having got over the shock of the moment.’

  ‘It was quite a surprise for him. Covered in soot from the fire, walking into the ladies’ parlour, only to find his wife in the latter stages of labour on the floor, and me of all people in attendance. I’ll never forget the look on his face.’

  ‘I saw how he looked at you, Rose... earlier in the day. Did you notice?’

  Rose gave a sigh. She picked a long piece of grass and put it into her mouth. In the distant past, a brief liason between Rose and David had promised much but delivered little, in the end.

  ‘It was four years ago, Rose... you and David. You’ve had time to move on and you have... with your studying, being busy in the hospital.’

  ‘Yes, it was a long time ago. But you of all people should appreciate how hard it is to forget.’

  I gave a start, swallowed hard, remembering Neil.

  ‘But you said you were happy with your life as it was, soon to qualify. You said...’

  ‘I know what I said, Beth.’

  She looked me straight in the eye.

  ‘I’ve seen David many times since I moved away. I was determined to forget him but he was equally determined not to let me.’

  Rose registered my confusion.

  ‘After about a year – just before Christmas 1911 it was – we bumped into each other several times... in the street or around the university... he has friends there from his student days... then, when I finally agreed to have tea with him, he admitted it hadn’t been a coincidence. He’d orchestrated it. I was angry with him, said he wasn’t being fair on me or on Catherine. But he would turn up out of the blue and... well, eventually, I couldn’t turn him away.’

  Rose saw the disbelief in my face.

  ‘But I haven’t seen him for over a year now. When I heard about the death of their first child, somehow I found the strength to say no. And he didn’t come back. Perhaps guilt kept him away, perhaps he felt he was being punished.’

  ‘Divine retribution for his...’ I hesitated, my mouth dry. ‘Deceit?’

  Rose nodded, blushing red at the sound of the word. Yes, deceit. Hers as well as David’s.

  ‘And you saw each other again for the first time... at the garden party?’

  ‘I should have stayed away but had to go because of Phee.’ She picked at the grass then tossed it aside. ‘No, I wanted to go….. because of Phee.’

  ‘You know he still loves you.’

  ‘Love? Yes, I suppose you could call it that. But that’s why I don’t think it will be a good idea if I visit Parkgate House.’ Rose stood up, brushed down her skirt. Without a hint of emotion, she looked down at me and I could only stare back not knowing what to say.

  ‘Come and visit, Beth, please. Don’t judge me. Try to understand.’ She paused before making up her mind not to say any more. She had said more than enough already.

  I got up and hugged my friend. Of course I would visit her and soon, very soon.

  I retrieved the bicycle from the hedgerow. What an extraordinary encou
nter, I realised, as I followed her progress back along the track to the road. My good friend, the medical student, devoting her life to the care and treatment of the sick; the same determined and focused professional woman who had conversed with me at the garden party, conveying an air of quiet control over her life. Yet beneath the calm exterior she had shown that night, when treating the injured and during the birth of Catherine Melville’s child, Rose hid a secret she had kept to herself for nigh on three years. How difficult had it been to conceal the truth from her friends, pretending that she had moved on with her life and consigned her feelings for David to the past, when the opposite was true? I felt deeply disappointed. I realised how much I had wanted to believe that Rose had forgotten about him, that she had become an independent woman who would not be restrained by romantic notions of love. Had I seen only what I wanted to see in my friend or had Rose been particularly skilful in her deception?

  I walked on, shoving the heavy bicycle along the bumpy track towards Whinbank where Mrs Maclean and Donald waited for me: Miss Fraser, the minister’s diffident sister who spent her life keeping house at the manse, contributing to church life and looking after others; kindly, smiling, innocent Elizabeth who, like her good friend Rose, might not be all she appeared on the outside.

  Minn

  A couple of weeks after the fire, Mrs Davidson told me to go home for my Sabbath night visit straight after the mid-day meal was over because I had worked hard in the fields all week and given extra help in the house, in the absence of Annie whose mother had been ill. As she often did, Mrs Davidson told me that, had she been blessed with a daughter, she would’ve been happy to have one just like me. But it was high time I paid a visit to see my family. The Grahams would be missing me and wondering if something was amiss. It had been a while since I’d been home to see them.

  Though my employer’s kind words brought a smile to my face, my spirit remained lukewarm. I’d returned from Parkgate with my thoughts tapsalteerie and I needed time to think it all out. Sure, hard work in the byre and in the house, and long afternoons in the fields, harvesting corn and hay with the men, had made the days fly by. Warm evenings sitting on the bench at the roadside, in the company of Dochie and the bothy lads, had been cheerful. Games of quoits using horseshoes gave an excuse for feigned disagreement and horseplay which was good fun. I liked listening to their blethers, laughing at their pranks, grateful for their company in the absence of Annie. In bed, I had slept alone for the first time in my life and each night rejuvenating sleep, after the long days of hard labour, had washed over me like a gentle wave on the shore. But loneliness and confusion returned each morning with the greyness of dawn. I left the farm that Sunday afternoon in two minds, and without enthusiasm.

  I took the Whinbank road, instead of my usual route, the hill path. Yet again, I felt like a change to my usual routine would do me good. A different direction might give me a new way of looking at things, another view in more ways than one.

  At the junction with the road that crossed the muir, the ruin of Eppie’s Mill was almost hidden from view by alder and birch. The roof had lost many slates and gaping holes in the timbers were pierced by tall saplings growing out of the dark interior towards the daylight. Against an outer wall, the mill wheel sat motionless, the frame rusty, its timbers broken. The trickling waters from the lade continued to spill over the top of the wheel but lacked enough energy to push against the corrosive power of age. Like most of the old mills in the area, Eppie’s Mill had been abandoned by the miller and his family a long time ago, when ancient ways had been left behind by newer developments in the towns. Once a hub of activity that drew farmers and carters from all around, the dilapidated building was now a lonely place, visited only by bats and crows, and the ghosts of the past. I took a fleeting glance at the empty windows and quickened my pace, till I was soon running to be free of whatever might be there. The place was cursed – I was sure of it.

  All at once, a flight of black crows erupted from the midst of the ruin. Their cawing and fluttering gave me the shakers till I got a sense of them and their noise faded away. I hated how they could scare me like that, as if they had been lying in wait, planning the moment together. I hurried on as fast as I could, my eyes on the light at the far end of the long tunnel of trees lining that part of the road home.

  ‘Good day,’ came a man’s voice from the shadows.

  I can hardly put into words the fright I got! I jumped backwards, drawing my arms up to protect myself. The brightness of the faraway light and the dimness beneath the trees combined to near blind me.

  ‘Good day to you, Miss,’ he repeated in an accent that wasn’t local. When he came nearer and my eyes adjusted, I got a better look at him. He had fair hair beneath his hat, and was smartly dressed in a tweed suit.

  I stepped to the side, putting what distance I could between me and the man. As he came into focus in the semi-darkness, I recognised him. ‘Mr Maclean? Oh, Mr Maclean! Is it you? Guid day, sir.’

  He smiled broadly when he doffed his hat and apologised for making me start. One of his arms was held in a sling, tight against his chest and was partly hidden, just visible beneath his jacket held shut by a single button. I think he was quite amused, as I took to my heels.

  I hurried away, hoping I wasn’t being rude. Sic a gliff, I realised, when I was well up the road. But I had seen him before, fortunately, so I knew who he was. He had come calling at Netherside, making the acquaintance of Mr Davidson and Angus, the grieve.

  Donald Maclean had been walking from the direction of Blackrigg. My conversations with Sarah and the scene at the Big House on the night of the fire when Mr Maclean got injured came into my mind. I remembered Miss Fraser on the ground beside him so I wondered if he had been visiting her at the manse.

  I was grateful when the hedgerow thinned and a huge blue sky opened up above me. The road wasn’t quite as steep where the muir spread out in every direction, shimmering in the heat of the day. Snipe thrummed in flight. Crickets hummed in the grasses. Buttercup and spotted orchid dotted the greener hollows by the roadside. Soon, I passed the place where the path to the shieling wound off through the heather. No one seemed to be about. It was a baking hot afternoon so that was no surprise. I imagined the Grahams at home, seeking shade in our small cottage with the door and both windows open to let the air in; Jean resting out of the sun; the men at the allotments watering the vegetables, necessary work that was permitted on the Sabbath.

  Then something metallic, reflecting the sunlight, caught my attention. Glinting from a peat hag, a short distance off the road, was a lady’s bicycle: green and silver, with a basket nestling between its handles. It stood half-hidden, propped up awaiting its owner’s return from a visit to the sheiling on the muir maybe. I shaded my eyes with a hand but saw no one. I felt completely alone on the muir but knew somebody must be about.

  I had passed the start of the footpath to The Law and was almost at the first bend in the hill road, when a scream from behind, followed by a screech of brakes, warned me to get out of the way. Yet another fright! Three in the one day! I leapt to one side but had chosen wrongly. A green and silver bicycle, with a basket on the front, went the same way and both me and the rider ended up in the ditch.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said the woman as she rolled into a sitting position free of the bicycle. ‘Are you still in one piece?’

  I soon came to my senses. ‘Miss Fraser! I’m fine. Are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘I’m not too experienced, I’m afraid... especially on the steeper hills.’

  I remembered the bicycle half-hidden from passers-by. And Donald Maclean’s smile when he passed me on the road. How happy he’d looked.

  ‘Have ye been for an outing, Miss?’

  She readjusted her straw hat before speaking. ‘Yes, I was walking across the muir. It’s so quiet and peaceful just now. I had it all to myself.’
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br />   I was surprised at her reply. I wondered if Miss Fraser had really been by herself but I couldn’t imagine her telling a lie. We pulled the bicycle out of the ditch together.

  ‘I hope it’s no broke an’ ye get hame a’ richt.’

  She lifted the back wheel and wound the pedals round. The chain had come free of the sprocket but Miss Fraser soon pushed it back into place.

  We brushed ourselves down, straightening our skirts, then agreed that walking might be safer on such a steep road. Miss Fraser started to guide the bicycle downhill, pumping the brakes when it threatened to run away from her. We blethered about my work at Netherside, the Graham family, and how well Sarah was fitting in at the manse. It seemed an odd conversation somehow – stilted, forced. I noticed that Miss Fraser said nothing about herself but it would have been rude to ask her anything directly, even though it seemed fine for her to ask dozens of questions about me and my family.

  In the field below the final bend, several ponies grazed the long grass behind the wall. I leaned over to stroke their backs. A distant group charged the length of the field towards me.

  I thought they were bonnie and I said so. I couldn’t mind ever seeing such wee horses before.

  ‘Look at their wee, short legs,’ I said. A caramel-coloured horse shook the long blonde hair of its mane out of its eyes. I stroked the thick furriness along its long back. Worn patches of hair formed stripes down its flanks but the animals looked strong and healthy, and well looked after.

  Miss Fraser joined me by the roadside, stepping across a dried-up ditch to get close. She pulled a handful of grass and a tiny white horse charged over in her direction. It bumped into her hand, misjudging the distance. It was almost blind which shocked me.

  ‘They’re friendly,’ I remarked.

  ‘Shetland ponies,’ she said.

  Miss Fraser opened her hand right up, surrendering the grass to the warm lips and huge yellow teeth of the small white horse.