The Cold Blast

by Mary Easson

  ‘How good was that?!’ said Rose, when it was clear proceedings had ended. ‘It’s what I’ve been thinking for some time… and it was splendid to hear it put into context. What do you say, Beth? Women are taking control of their lives!’

  ‘I’m astounded at how much I could relate to myself,’ I replied, feeling that nothing could stand in our way of progress if we put our minds to it.

  ‘Pity you didn’t bring Richard,’ Rose said with feigned innocence.

  ‘Phee couldn’t have put it better! Behave!’ I had to suppress a loud snort.

  We left our seats and made for the door, laughing at Richard’s expense.

  A huddle had developed at the exit and we soon found out why. Cloud that had been boiling up since late in the afternoon had developed into a thunderstorm. Rain fell like stair rods, so fast that the pavement and roadway were already awash. The people at the Forward Van were running for cover as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled around the heavens.

  ‘Let’s go!’ I cried out, too elated by what I had just heard to wait for the rain to pass.

  We pushed through the crowd, past the comfortable ladies of the church tea committee who were hanging onto Isabelle Melville’s every word about the day she had met the King. We edged between Mrs Gow and the Widow MacAuley who were discussing the likelihood of the thatch in their roofs holding out against the downpour; stepped in front of the nurse and the lady schoolteachers; and the members of the ladies’ choir contemplating the distance home in the wet, hoping their summer outing at the weekend would not be affected.

  Arm-in-arm, we ran out into the hissing rain. We were drenched to the skin within a few steps which made us laugh. We had no defence against the deluge as raindrops kissed our faces and ran down our necks. It felt wonderful. We were free like the rain, unrestrained by manners and restrictions, feeling good in our own skins.

  Barely visible through the downpour, a uniformed horseman was advancing along the road towards us at a fast pace so we had to wait before we could cross the street. There was nothing we could do but stand there, let him pass, and let the deluge take its course. He galloped closer through a stream flowing down the middle of the road. Muddy water splashed from the thundering hooves of his horse. The rain stung our eyes as we focused on him. He was taught in the saddle, his head bent low against the onslaught. Rose looked up at him as he approached but she did not smile. He saw her and touched his cap with a leather-gloved hand but kept riding. Her eyes followed him as he disappeared into the mirk.

  I pulled at her arm.

  ‘Let’s go, Rose. We’re soaked to the skin.’

  Rose pulled back for a moment, staring along the road to Parkgate. She wouldn’t move or speak. She seemed rooted to the spot, helpless against the onslaught of heavy rain.

  ‘For the Love of God, Rose! He’s gone! Let’s go!’ Then she let me lead her across the road and up the lane to the shelter of the manse.

  Chapter 16

  Elizabeth

  The thunderstorm left devastation in its wake. A small landslide on the south-facing slope of The Law had come to a halt in the field above Craigpark Farm, leaving behind a permanent reminder of the power of Nature to be witnessed the following day when people emerged from damp homes to assess the damage. All night, it had been relentless, battering down onto thin slates and pouring out of gutters too fast for the slope of the land to carry it away. No one could remember thunder and lightning like it. The storm had remained overhead for what seemed like an age, sending down wave after wave of unforgiving hail and rain onto villagers who could do nothing but sit out the tempest, praying to God for an end to it, asking Him what they had done to deserve such a fate.

  The Stoneyrigg Rows came off worse than any other part of the district since they had been built on a bog. With Irish labour, the Coal Company had drained the land, a wide flat terrace on the side of The Law. Just two parallel ditches leading into the Red Burn, had rendered unproductive ground suitable for industrial housing. The channels could dispatch the worst of it on a day when the rain wasn’t heavy but they had never been designed to cope with much more. Even a normal Scottish winter had not been considered in the planning process, the cost of labour being uppermost in the owner’s mind. During the night of the storm, the Rows were inundated within a very short time as the dry closets overflowed and a temporary pond formed. Householders were up all night, armed with cloths, pails and brushes, doing what they could to remove stinking water from their homes.

  The following morning, Dr Matheson arrived at the manse under cloudless skies having witnessed the aftermath of the deluge. The people of the Rows, he explained, were busy lugging pails of putrid water to the edge of the road where they were tipping it over the fence, out of harm’s way. Meanwhile women lined up in a pool of filth to draw water from the spigots in the street.

  ‘As long as there are places like Stoneyrigg,’ he declared as he came into the parlour, ‘There will be no end to my work and the work of every other doctor. I’ve put the word round about boiling the water before it’s used for washing or drinking, of course.’

  He looked disapprovingly at Rose, wrapped up in a shawl, her dark hair unkempt and tumbling over her shoulders, looking as if she had been up half the night.

  ‘Come along,’ he said to her. ‘I must get along to Parkgate straight away to telephone the authorities. I’ll have someone come out to assess the situation. The Medical Officer of Health should know about this... and so should Charles Imrie. He bears some responsibility for his tenants and needs to get a man down there to organise the clean up.’

  Rose hesitated. She was tired out from our long discussion into the night and reluctant to accompany her father to Parkgate for reasons that I now better understood.

  ‘The water is full of disease,’ Dr Matheson said, raising his voice just enough to communicate the gravity of the situation. ‘Action needs to be taken. The nurse will go round to reinforce the message but time is of the essence, I’m afraid.’

  Rose suggested that her father go by himself but he was having none of it. She was being quite unreasonable, in his opinion. Did she want to find out about the work of a country doctor or did she not?

  I came to my friend’s rescue, offering to accompany her to Parkgate.

  She followed meekly.

  ‘We were up quite late,’ I explained as we climbed into the doctor’s motor car.

  ‘That much is obvious,’ he said, his eyes on the road once more. Puddles and potholes punctuated the way ahead. ‘I don’t know what young women find to talk about,’ he added once we were well on our way.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Rose.

  Jameson appeared at the large oak door, irritated by our urgent ringing of the bell. When he saw the good doctor had come to visit, he changed his tune however, inviting him in without hesitation then rushing him off to the study in order to use the telephone.

  Rose and I stood waiting in the semi-darkness of the hallway: a grand oak-lined corridor hung with ornate mirrors and portraits in gilt frames. Dressed in a plain black skirt and a striped blouse of pink and white, Rose whispered that she wished the ground would swallow her up. There was no place on earth she would rather not be, and she prayed that her father would return soon, allowing a quick escape back to the village. A door banged and a voice could be heard in the distance. A servant was receiving instructions from the housekeeper. We relaxed as we studied the ceiling, the ornate plasterwork and the shimmering glass of the chandelier which was modest compared to others we had seen in the main rooms during former visits. The house smelled of beeswax and lavender, and money. A far cry from the cottages in the Stoneyrigg Rows.

  ‘Penny for them.’ His voice was deep and rich, like his pockets.

  I saw how Rose stiffened.

  David Melville stood at the half-opened door into the drawing room. He looked fine in his military uniform. His s
kin glowed from days in the sun; his eyes shone at the sight of her. He made no pretence at how he felt. His smile said it all, so glad to see her standing there, for a brief moment, staring across the chasm between them yet close enough to touch, had I not been there. He held out his hand, inviting her into the room with him.

  She stood firm, made to explain her presence: her father, the telephone, a public health situation of some importance.

  I began to speak about the problems that ensue when the wrong site is chosen for housing as might be the case if the rumours about new rows for the Back o’ Moss workers were correct. Then I stressed the importance of wash house provision and indoor plumbing for improving the lives of the women; the benefits of investment in the health of workers and the spin-off in terms of output for the employer.

  He stared at me as if I was mad. There I was playing piggy-in-the-middle, in the hallway of his home where he was master, and daring to lecture him about how to house his workforce.

  He nodded, Yes, of course. It would all be taken into consideration when the final decision was made about where to build the new rows.

  I was not about to be dismissed so easily. I said that the field on the west side of Blackrigg was clearly unsuitable given the flooding along at Stoneyrigg. The western site was similar in many ways and drainage would be a problem. A sloping site would be better.

  He seemed relieved when Dr Matheson appeared from the study and he listened more intently as the doctor reinforced my message. I was grateful for his support but quietly seethed that my opinion was not as credible as the doctor’s and had not merited the same degree of interest.

  Then Catherine Melville joined us, abruptly ending our conversation about matters relating to the housing of the labouring classes.

  ‘Why don’t you come to the nursery while you’re here.’ She turned to Rose, ‘Perhaps you’d like to see how baby Clive is doing, since you brought him into the world, Miss Matheson.’

  ‘I’d love to. Thank you.’

  Dr Matheson went ahead, enquiring after everyone’s health whilst I followed on behind.

  Catherine led the way up a sweeping staircase lit by a long stained-glass window to the floor above.

  ‘Have you recovered after the birth, Catherine?’ he asked. ‘Has Dr Lindsay been looking after you and baby Clive?’

  I wondered what the doctor was making of Catherine’s red-rimmed eyes and how drawn she looked.

  She climbed the stairs ahead of us in silence, continued along a corridor, before stopping at the nursery door as if she couldn’t bear to go inside. Her face was as pale as the expensive dress she was wearing.

  ‘Things haven’t been easy since the birth, doctor.’ She placed a hand on her lower abdomen. ‘My husband says it’ll take time to get over it, that things will get back to normal, eventually. But I don’t think so. I really don’t think so. It would be difficult to go through it all again. Do you understand?’

  I hung back a little, not wishing to eavesdrop on what had become a confidential discussion between patient and doctor. I looked round for Rose but the corridor was empty, retraced my steps to the staircase and looked down. The sight of David Melville taking Rose in his arms shocked me beyond belief and I must have gasped.

  They looked up at me in alarm and parted suddenly. David disappeared into the corridor below.

  Rose soon joined us in the nursery, her cheeks as pink as the blooms I had seen in her father’s garden. Baby Clive lay sleeping in his crib, tucked up in pristine sheets and a blue, embroidered blanket. The room was festooned with toy boats and books, tin soldiers and building blocks all brightly coloured and brand new. They evidenced an outpouring of love from doting parents and other relatives, delighted by the arrival of the newest addition to the Melville dynasty. A large rocking horse stood by the window. Like the other toys, way in advance of the child’s stage of development but part of the furniture, signposts to his future life as the heir to Rashiepark.

  We admired David and Catherine’s son. He was filling out nicely, we said, a credit to the care of a loving mother.

  ‘So like his father,’ the doctor observed.

  Catherine praised the nanny, describing how she weighed the baby regularly to monitor his weight gain. She was an experienced nurse who knew what to do and helped her to get as much sleep as possible in between all of the feeding. In fact, the nurse was so capable that Catherine felt superfluous when it came to the child’s care, even though she was his mother. It was a flippant remark, meant to be light-hearted, but it gave away much of her insecurity.

  I surmised that the loss of her first child had, perhaps, taken its toll on Catherine Melville.

  To my horror, after what I had just witnessed from the top of the stairs, she looked forlornly at Rose.

  ‘I can’t seem to talk to Dr Lindsay about how I’m feeling. But I feel that I could open up to you. There’s so much I’d like to discuss. So much rattles around in my head, sometimes I think it’s all too much but I keep it bottled up.’

  ‘You really should speak to Dr Lindsay about how you’re feeling, Catherine,’ Rose insisted.

  ‘You’re a doctor...more or less... and a woman... I feel you would understand. Will you visit again soon? Call in from time to time?’ She looked so sad and lonely.

  ‘If you think it will help, Catherine, I will come again. I promise. I’ll visit very soon,’ Rose agreed.

  ‘Will you come again tomorrow, Rose?’ Catherine asked nervously as we took our leave.

  ‘Glad to,’ Rose replied, trying to sound like a friend. ‘Perhaps we could take Clive for a walk, and a picnic, if the weather stays fair. The air would do you good.’

  Just getting out of this house would do you good, I thought to myself, descending the grand staircase and glad to be going.

  ‘Yes, a walk and a picnic luncheon,’ Catherine agreed, with forced jollity. She frowned. Here was something else to worry about. ‘I’ll tell nanny to have everything prepared.’

  ‘Will you come too, Elizabeth?’ asked Rose, searching my eyes for support and, perhaps, understanding.

  I glared at her. ‘I’m sorry,’ I replied curtly. ‘I’m busy tomorrow.’

  I was not going to be a smokescreen for Rose and David, assisting in the rekindling of a love affair under the very nose of poor Catherine Melville. In fact, I looked forward to the moment when I would be able to give Rose a piece of my mind.

  We were met by David in the hall as Jameson showed us the door. Dr Matheson studied his uniform, the insignia of rank, the epaulettes, and the brass buttons. He enquired about army matters. What was the word in army circles about the likelihood of war? Most unsettling that an assassination of one man on the other side of Europe, even if he was an Archduke, could have repercussions for everyone across so many countries. The matter should have been sorted out through diplomacy, the doctor insisted. It should not have been allowed to escalate, drawing so many nations to the brink. In his opinion, he explained with regret, the acceptance of war as a method appropriate for settling the arguments between powers would always lead to conflict, eventually.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m praying for a miracle. But I’m not holding my breath.’

  David laughed off the doctor’s fears. ‘The army’s not too concerned at the moment so don’t worry. Though there’s not much time for diplomacy to sort out the impasse.’

  Rose had made her way towards her father’s car and was standing some way off.

  ‘It was a pleasure to see you,’ David called, looking at Rose directly. ‘You must come again. And soon.’

  Catherine joined her husband to wave off the visitors. She linked her arm in his.

  ‘They will be back very soon,’ she said to him, looking more at ease. ‘Or at least Rose will. She’s returning tomorrow for a walk with me and the baby. I’m quite looking forward to it.’

  David said
nothing but walked off abruptly, to Catherine’s surprise. He disappeared inside the study and banged the door behind him.

  A few days later, I sat at the bottom of the stairs avidly reading a letter that had only just dropped through the letterbox. I loved to hear Phee’s news from the Borders, soon to be her permanent home after her marriage to Eric, at the end of September. Plans were being drawn up for a church service followed by a grand wedding breakfast in the North British Hotel. Visits to the capital for dress fittings had already taken place. The cake and other essentials had been chosen. I realised long ago that Phee wasn’t the type to hold back and take her time. She had fallen head over heels with her captain and wanted to be married as soon as possible. She would have been happy to elope into the night with him, just the two of them on the back of a strong white steed, but Isabelle had put the brakes on that idea, persuading her younger sister that the romance of a society wedding was worth waiting for. Often, Phee wrote in her letter, she tossed and turned till dawn tortured by the promised passion of her wedding night. I blushed as I read the letter. There were times when Phee was just a little too candid but I wouldn’t have changed her for the world. In truth, it filled me with hope for my own happiness when I learned of how head over heels she was for her dashing cavalryman.

  As I folded up the letter, I realised a hurried post script had been added. The news that Phee was returning home at the end of the week delighted me. The news that Eric had been sent for by his regiment gave cause for concern. He had left hurriedly one morning, leaving her upset. Then I smiled. Parting is such sweet sorrow, Phee reflected, longing for the day when she would see him again.