The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  Davy was the first to see the horseman coming from the west. He narrowed his eyes, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, like a fox smelling a rabbit. Alex followed his gaze along Main Street and we all latched on. The rider was coming closer, staring straight ahead, moving rhythmically with his mount. He was tall in the saddle, holding the strong brown horse tightly by the reins, keeping him in check, letting him know who was in charge. Soon we were able to make out his cap and his uniform. He was brass-buttoned and leather-gloved, long leather boots pushed into shining stirrups. He saw us all standing but he didn’t flinch. The horse walked on, steady and composed like his master. But when they came to the Smiddy, the rider gave a yank on the rein and dug in his heels. The horse took off at the gallop, up the hill road and out of sight.

  ‘Somebody’s missing their fancy motor,’ said Davy. I could see how he wanted to laugh, sure the others must have seen it too.

  ‘Mr Melville’s lookin’ awfy smert in his uniform,’ said John Doyle.

  ‘A Terrier,’ observed Joe Macnab. ‘Reservist.’

  ‘Comfortin’ tae ken we’re bein’ looked efter b’ the gentry,’ said Davy. ‘I’ll sleep soond in ma bed the nicht.’

  ‘A European war’s on the cairds, they’re sayin’,’ sighed Joe.

  Steeny agreed. ‘Aye, accordin’ tae the papers there’s nae wey roond it.’

  ‘We’re in the middle o’ a war the noo. Oor ain war wi’ the coal owners,’ said Davy.

  ‘An’ no jist us... workers a’ place are battlin’ the same. We’ve naethin’ against ither workers, foreign or itherwise,’ said Alex.

  ‘But we’re no the yins callin’ the shots. Nae maitter hoo fell we micht protest, it’s no in oor hauns, is it?’ said Joe.

  ‘Aye, an’ gie us a uniform an’ a merry tune, we’ll fa’ in ahint the flag, quick as a wink,’ said Alex. ‘Mark ma words.’

  ‘Funny thon,’ said Joe, hands in pockets.

  ‘Aye, funny peculiar but no funny ha ha,’ said Alex.

  ‘Let’s pray it’ll no come tae pass,’ said Steeny.

  We watched him leave for another union meeting in a neighbouring village. I held onto the small lifeline he had thrown to us, hoping that simple and earnest prayer might avert the conflicts predicted. But deep down I realised that if prayer was the answer, then we’d already be living in a much better world than the one we knew to be true.

  Elizabeth

  I remember how I wrestled the bicycle through the gate into the manse garden after that encounter with Minn Graham. It was such a great heavy machine when it wouldn’t go exactly where I wanted. I leaned it against the wall under the pantry window and eased my shoulders back, glad to be rid of the weight of the thing. I removed my straw bonnet, wiped the sweat from around the nape of my neck with a handkerchief, before entering my personal domain at the back of the house. The kitchen was cool and shaded after the onslaught of the afternoon sun up on the muir. I was glad of it: the cool and the shade; glad of the silence, all bar the ticking clock and the ashes settling in the range; glad that Sarah had the afternoon off; especially glad of Richard’s absence. I felt my throat tighten and my head swim. Why did the mention of Neil Tennant’s name still engender such feelings? To hear of his intention to return to Blackrigg, that day of all days when I had gone back to the shieling on the muir for the first time in four years! I reached for the table and stared at the pattern in the wood. The grain wove and wound around itself in a way that was sickening till it became a blur before my eyes.

  In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself in a dark wood where the straight path was lost. Darkness was beckoning.

  Then it came to me, how that wood was borne of nature, wild and free, strong and enduring. Each curve and whorl, one against the other, was a season of vernal growth, cut short by winter’s icy blast.

  I spoke quietly to the empty room, took a shallow breath and then another, closing my eyes against the wave of panic that threatened to wash me away.

  No!

  I would not be cast into the inferno again. I only needed time. Time would see it all straight, as it was intended. And I breathed deeply once again.

  At last, I went to the window and looked out. My garden looked splendid in the hot colours of late July, its brightness glorified from my perspective in the cool shade of the kitchen. My arms and legs felt weak – I will admit – but I filled a glass with water from the tap, picked up my drawing book and walked out into the sunshine.

  I remember how I placed a potted pelargonium on the garden seat, carefully moving it this way and that. It was an excellent subject for drawing: striking scarlet flowers in various stages of opening, a deep crimson red flowing like blood into the green of every leaf, and the aged terracotta pot encrusted with white salts. I would fetch my paints later, after the pencil outline was done. Little gave me more pleasure. I had complete control over the outcome and it left me with a sense of satisfaction – so unlike my dealings with people. I racked my brain for the secret meaning conveyed by the scarlet flower. It was on the tip of my tongue but I couldn’t quite grasp it. Then I spotted a tray on the old rustic table over by the greenhouse – two cups and saucers, a teapot, and a plate with a scattering of crumbs, cushions on the wooden bench. Richard had been there earlier, with a visitor.

  I was drawn to it, wondering. The teapot was cold.

  ‘Ah! Elizabeth!’ his voice called out from the lane.

  Wrestling with the latch, he invaded the peace of the garden like a bull at a gate. He was wearing his white cotton jacket and a panama hat, family heirlooms he had been happy to rescue from our late father’s things. Whenever he had the chance to wear them, he was delighted, not just because it meant that the weather was fine but because it vindicated the care he took where money was concerned. He looked very pleased with himself and that put me on my guard.

  ‘You decided to return to the fold,’ he said.

  ‘You make me sound like the prodigal son, Richard. Whatever do you mean?’

  He perched beside me on the wall, a little too closely, invading my space. I moved sideways as far as I could without falling off the end and into the pond.

  ‘You’ve been away for hours. Gallivanting. You barely gave me time to say the benediction at the end of this morning’s service before you shot out of the door, off on one of your jaunts on that ungainly contraption you insist on pedalling around the village.’

  ‘You know perfectly well that I went to visit Rose and her father. I’d been invited for Sunday dinner. I told you.’

  ‘I know what you told me, Elizabeth. But you left the Mathesons at ten past two, did you not? And I was here until at least four o’ clock, yet you still hadn’t returned.’

  I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of hearing me ask how he knew exactly when I had left the Mathesons. Gossips were attracted to my brother like flies round a dead dog. Instead, I waited for an interrogation but what he said was unexpected.

  ‘Well, whatever you were doing was your business, I suppose.’ He knew he had disarmed me. ‘Pity you took so long, however, because you missed having tea with our visitor.’

  I added a few more pencil strokes to my drawing, and a bit of fierce shading for good measure.

  ‘Yes. Well, when I say our visitor, I actually mean YOUR visitor. He clearly didn’t come to see me.’

  I studied the tray, set for two. ‘He?’ I began to draw more cautiously. ‘And who would that be?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  I could feel the heat rising through my cheeks and was in no mood for games.

  ‘For the Love of God, Richard. Grow up and tell me who it was.’

  He paused a while longer, exacting the maximum amount of pain from the situation.

  ‘Donald Maclean, of course. Who else could it be?’

  I was glad that my face was already red from the
sun. ‘Donald came calling?’

  ‘Yes, he did come calling. You know, it’s really not on. Is it, Elizabeth? To have Donald Maclean arriving at the door uninvited, on a whim. Pretending he just happened to be passing this way on a Sunday walk... all the way from Whinbank. What will people think?’

  ‘People will think he happened to be passing and called to say hello.’ Though I knew the gossips would be having a field day.

  ‘And meanwhile, you were where?’

  ‘I was cycling. And walking on the muir.’

  ‘Hoping to bump into Mr Maclean on the high road perhaps? Did you have a liaison somewhere and missed one another?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what he said. In any case, I put him straight. I told him if he had honourable intentions towards you, my sister, then he should come out and say it. I made it clear that he was putting your reputation at risk and should make up his mind about what he intended. Either he makes a decision or doesn’t come calling again. And I sincerely hope you follow suit.’

  I could hardly believe my ears. ‘You did what?’ I didn’t wait for an explanation. ‘How dare you provoke such ideas in Donald Maclean. We are good friends, and nothing more.’

  ‘Now, now. Tut, tut. You know perfectly well that young men and women cannot simply be good friends, Elizabeth. Such nonsense. I do believe I may have done you a favour and that you will find out very soon what Mr Maclean’s intentions towards you actually are.’ He looked extremely smug.

  I got to my feet, barely able to speak, and threw my precious drawing book onto the ground.

  ‘How dare you organise my life and manipulate my friendships! You are the most infuriating brother a sister could have! Do you know that?!’

  Richard looked as if he did know that, and was perfectly pleased with himself because of it.

  I swept my arm round. The pelargonium went flying. The terracotta pot broke into a dozen pieces. ‘Stupidity!’ I shouted at the plant, suddenly remembering its secret meaning. ‘I should have known!’

  Richard hadn’t expected such an extreme reaction. ‘Rather childish, don’t you think? Completely unnecessary, I’d say.’

  ‘I don’t care what you or anyone thinks or says,’ I erupted. ‘Why don’t you all just leave me alone! All of you!’

  I stormed into the house, mounted the stairs two at a time, slammed my bedroom door and threw myself onto the bed. Hot tears pricked my eyes but I was really too angry to cry. I glared at a long crack across the ceiling. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’ I ranted. Oh, I felt such a fool! ‘And as for you, Neil Tennant,’ I said out loud as if he was there, ‘You have business to attend to. Am I your unfinished business? I’ll unfinished business you! Not a word for nearly four years and you suddenly decide to come back here and, no doubt, expect me to be grateful that you finally found time for unfinished business!’

  In the days that followed I sought solace in the company of women, especially the women of the Rows. I assisted the nurse where I could; helped a new mother through her first confinement which proved to be lengthy and not without its difficulties; supported overworked mothers with their children; and paid particular attention to Mrs Pow whose physical and mental health were going downhill rapidly. Her ulcerated leg was no longer healing and she found the least amount of walking excruciatingly painful but she still insisted on her daily walk down the pit road to ask if they had found Jamie after all this time. This expedition was not possible without assistance and I was glad to help her on what would prove to be the last she would make before her passing at the end of the month.

  Though I knew that I was helping these women, I felt that so much more could be achieved in other ways and that is why I invited several members of the Co-operative Women’s Guild round for tea at the manse later that week.

  Unfortunately, Sarah and I were in the garden when they arrived. The brass bell must have sounded over and over and over again. Silence would have been restored only briefly before each new bout of irritable clanging started up. I still giggle as I picture Richard prising open the study door, looking peevishly over the top of his half-moon spectacles. He was writing a sermon and the racket would have come at the wrong time. Once he had embarked on a discourse based on Scripture, he had to get on with it or the flow of creativity might be turned off for good. He would have seen that the house was deserted and, judging by the shadows on the other side of the stained-glass window, that a number of people had arrived at the same time. It wasn’t his job to open the door, you see. He had a sister and a maid to do that for him, to deal with any visitors, prioritise them according to need, sort them out, and advise the regulars to return at another time. On that particular occasion, I remember, he had left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed. Somebody should have been on hand to deal with such matters. As the church warden often said, there’s nae guid keepin’ a dug an barkin’ yersel. Richard always found that expression amusing. He was calling out for me when I came in through the back door. But without an immediate response, he’d had no option but to answer the door himself.

  ‘Yes?’ I heard him say. He would have recognised Mrs Broadley from the Sunday morning service and Mrs Duncan’s name might have come to him though she had stopped attending church after the death of her husband some years back.

  It was the one commonly known as Highland Mary who stepped forward. Everyone in the village knew her but he had never had the pleasure of her acquaintance, always managing to avoid it. She was a strong woman with grey hair pinned back in a small bun. She had a purposeful look about her, a face that was not unkind but she was clearly someone who did not take any prisoners. She introduced herself and her companions.

  ‘We’re here tae see Miss Fraser. She’s expectin’ us.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not in,’ he replied, too busy to find out where I was at that precise moment. He was engaged in important work, he told them, and needed to get back to it.

  ‘We’ll wait then, if ye dinnae mind. It’s a waste o’ oor time tae gang hame jist tae come back oan anither occasion.’

  Rather forward for a woman, he probably thought.

  ‘It is not convenient. I am rather busy.’ He felt flustered and couldn’t hide it.

  Highland Mary was irritated and was in no mood to hide it. ‘We have an appointment,’ she stated. ‘It was arranged.’

  I could not eavesdrop any longer and emerged from the kitchen to relieve my brother of his discomfort. I beckoned my visitors into the parlour. Richard was still standing in the hallway when I reappeared briefly to pass on an order for tea to Sarah in the kitchen.

  ‘Aren’t you getting back to your writing, Richard? You know how the creative juices dry up when you’re disturbed. Don’t hang about on account of us.’

  I could tell he wanted to know what business had brought the women to the manse but he couldn’t ask because the parlour door was open.

  He backed off reluctantly but he would grill me later, I was sure. It wasn’t my place to have meetings on church property. And three women from the Rows? A parishioner would have told him, no doubt, I was still going there. Whatever I was up to, Richard had already decided he did not approve.

  The women were admiring the parlour when I returned, at last, with a tea tray. Mrs Broadley was remarking on how comfortable the upholstery was; Mrs Duncan thought the porcelain planter containing the aspidistra was a fine thing but it would block out all of the light if it sat at her window; and Mrs Birse had just finished saying they would have to come a bit closer, she would hardly be able to see or hear them across such a big room.

  I thanked the women for giving up their valuable time to come and see me in their capacity as members of the Women’s Guild of the local Co-operative Society. Meetings normally didn’t take place during the summer but I had an idea and felt it was too important to wait. I expressed my admiration for the wonders of
the Store on Main Street which sold good quality food at reasonable prices, whilst returning a dividend to each and every member. As a widow with a family to feed and clothe, Mrs Duncan was keen to sing the praises of the divi. But the Co-op had been a boon in other ways too, she explained. The Women’s Committee, or Guild, was involved in providing social benefits for its members. Thirty young men, including her younger son, had spent a week on one of the many Co-operative camps held across the country. They had benefitted enormously from the experience, learning woodcraft and cooking skills whilst living under canvas. Sandy, apparently, had returned from the Trossachs looking refreshed thanks to the mountain air and the sunshine, and a hundred midgie bites hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm for the place; whilst she had been able to visit the seaside for the first time in her life, on one of the day trips, along with her small daughter. The women related their adventures on their visit together to Dunoon. They had taken the train then the steamer, stopping in at Helensburgh en route.

  What a fine day they’d had sailing down the Clyde, taking in the sea air and the beautiful scenery, commented Mrs Broadley. Even the weather had been laid on to their satisfaction. They had saved hard to pay for the trips, contributing weekly payments recorded on a card. It hadn’t been cheap, right enough, but thanks to the Cooperative they were getting opportunities that would otherwise have passed them by. And as the three women were the mainstay of the committee, they had plans for more – dances and lectures, all sorts.

  ‘That’s precisely what I wish to talk to you about,’ I said when I got the chance.

  The women nodded, waiting, open to ideas.

  ‘I was wondering what the Guild would think about including a specific class I have in mind, in their winter programme of events.’ I caught Mrs Birse by the eye. ‘I believe a neighbouring Society holds classes in Nursing the Sick at Home. Don’t you think that would be a boon to the local community?’