by Mary Easson
I was brought rudely back to the real world of the Blackrigg manse when the doorbell rang, my heart fluttering with a mixture of hope and dread at who it might be. I hesitated before answering, praying that it wasn’t Donald Maclean dropping in to ask for my hand in marriage after his encounter with my brother that awful Sunday afternoon. I still smarted when I thought of Richard’s interference, without any pretence at subtlety. I had avoided visiting Whinbank even though I knew Mrs Maclean would be missing my company and I found it impossible even to write with excuses that might have explained my absence. A peak through the stained glass window let me know all was well.
Richard opened the study door asking if the post had come, only to find the schoolmaster, looking rested after a holiday in France, grinning on the doorstep.
I followed him into the study before Richard was able to exclude me. Here was an opportunity. Mr Black might prove useful in fighting my corner.
‘I’ve asked Richard to put his name to a report I’m compiling about housing conditions in the village, Mr Black. I want to send it to our Member of Parliament as a contribution to the parliamentary enquiry.’
‘Splendid idea,’ he agreed. ‘The flooding along at Stoneyrigg was horrendous. As if the design of the houses wasn’t bad enough, they’ve built them in a bog. Every time it rains heavily, it’s a quagmire of mud and filth.’
Richard grimaced. Mr Black had said the wrong thing.
‘Yes, splendid idea,’ Ernest continued. ‘Your name, Richard would add a degree of credibility to such a report.’ He turned to me, embarrassed by what might be perceived as insensitivity. ‘No offence intended, dear Miss Fraser.’
‘None taken. A submission from a mere woman would not be as well-received as a report from a minister of the church.... other churchmen are speaking out about such things.’
Richard sighed. He didn’t feel like arguing with me in the company of a witness, especially one such as Ernest Black who was clearly intent on currying favour with me. I guessed that Richard probably wouldn’t have the schoolmaster round for dinner again anytime soon. Meantime, he would humour us both then refuse to sign the report when I was by myself.
Ernest decided to capitalise on the situation, sensing that he had caught the minister on a good day.
‘While I remember, about that matter we were discussing before I went off on my travels.... the matter of the school board feeding the children of the miners should the strike go ahead... as seems increasingly likely.’
Richard looked grave, preparing to quash the man’s misplaced enthusiasm for a lost cause.
Ernest continued. ‘The loss of income from the government grant to the board, should the children be removed from the school by their parents, would be a set-back for the school.’
‘As happened in Lanarkshire during a previous dispute,’ I added in support.
Ernest again. ‘That’s right, Richard. Someone might let it slip to the Blackrigg miners. Despite our best efforts, news gets around. It wouldn’t look good for the school to lose much of its pupil roll overnight, due to your lack of support for innocent children caught up in a situation not of their making. It would be a tragedy so early in your tenure as chair of the board. Would it not?’
Richard looked daggers at us both, knowing he was defeated, and backed off into his study.
‘Good decision, Richard,’ I called after him just as the door was closing. ‘And I’ll have a full report on housing conditions for you to sign within the month.’
Ernest raised his eyebrows. ‘Well done, Elizabeth.’
‘Well done to you too, Mr Black, and thank you for your help, most sincerely.’ I thought for a moment. ‘Don’t you feel that change is just around the corner? There is so much to be done but change is coming, we can be sure of it.’
Ernest doffed his hat and took his leave, less buoyant than I had expected after his visit to the near continent with his good friend, Mr Muir.
I found out from him on another occasion that he hadn’t wanted to crush my optimism at the time. It suited me so well, he told me, and he loved me for it. He had kept to himself the scenes he had witnessed whilst on holiday, images of military vehicles and the build-up of troops in the quiet countryside of Northern France. He had decided not to mention the latest gossip about the Lithuanian worker who lodged with Mrs Duncan, about how Constable Mackay had come for him in the middle of the night and put him into a cell until his nationality could be checked. Nor did he mention that David Melville had been seen leaving the village early that morning, driven by Billy Dodds to the barracks in Edinburgh by all accounts, by order of his battalion.
Change was most definitely coming but perhaps not of the kind that I was hoping for.
Minn
I only went home the once in all the weeks after the fire at the Big House. When I did, I was reminded of my father’s displeasure at my behaviour and his disapproval of Rob. Though he’d been released from the police station without charge, and despite testimony from no less than the laird himself, it was a case of no smoke without fire as far as my father was concerned. How could I tell him that Rob had come looking for me at Parkgate House that night? I found out from Annie that he’d turned up at Netherside asking for me and she’d told him where I was. Before he managed to leave, the grieve found him at the back of the steading and shouted on the ploughman. They gave him what-for, thinking he was up to no good. That explained the cut and the bruising on his face when I saw him later at Parkgate.
Jean was pleasant enough when I went home but I felt that the door that had opened between us was well-closed again. And though it had always been normal for Uncle Peter and Uncle Gavin to be quiet in my company, now their silence seemed filled with unspoken condemnation. In fact, the absence of any talk in the house about the dispute in the pits, the trouble in the community and whether or not these things were connected, infuriated me. It made me want to scream that I wasn’t a child and should be party to everybody’s thoughts and accusations. Instead, there was only a running commentary about the weather, the allotments, and occasional tittle-tattle about this one and that one in the village. A remark about Peggy Duncan and her foreign lodger that was worthy of Bessie Morrison and the gossips in the queue at the Co-op, had me running for the hills. My admiration for Peggy merely grew in the face of such small minds.
I worried that it all might chip away at my feelings for Rob which were already confused. My dreams of the early summer and schemes to run away to Canada with him seemed hopeless. And so, it was easier to stay away from Stoneyrigg and get on with life at Netherside.
One evening in early August, I was with Annie, leaning against the back wall of the farmhouse at lowsing-time, another hard day’s work behind us. I shook my long hair free of its cotton scarf and breathed in the cool air. Past the midden, the kye grazed lush green grass in the middle meadow. I could have watched them all night. There is surely nothing as peaceful as a herd of cattle with their heads in a field of pasture on a sunny evening after milking is over. The shepherd’s ancient mother had warned that such a pleasant summer of weather – apart from the odd downpour – was likely to be followed by a harsh winter. It was Nature’s way of seeing to things, of evening it all out: the good and the bad, plenty and scarcity. She’d lived long enough on this earth to have seen it all before, she told us. But we were young, Annie and me, so we didn’t pay heed to old wives’ tales when it suited us. Whatever lay ahead, we would face when the time came. We lived in hope and, in many ways, life lay in the future rather than the here and now. It was what we worked for, what we wished for, what kept us going through the present, convinced that our dreams would come true and might be waiting for us just around the corner.
A cool breeze blew in from the shadows, finding us where we rested on the sunny side of the house.
‘Did ye see Rob thon time ye were hame?’ ventured Annie, expecting me to say that I hadn’t, shutting
down any talk of Rob right there and then as I had done often in recent days.
I took a while to answer. ‘Aye, I did.’
Annie gave a start. ‘Spill the beans then....’
‘He was at the bottom o’ the hill road.’
‘Ye niver said! Whit happened? Come oan!’
‘Nuthin happened. He was wi’ the usual crowd... Sandy, Bert, Dan, Jim, and John, Wee Geordie... Billy Tennant...’
‘And?’
‘They were talkin’ aboot the Highland Games… I came on them near the steadin’. The pipe band and the fitba’ tournament... sounded fine... sic a shame we missed them.’
Annie raised an eyebrow. ‘Did Rob need a’ his freens aboot him tae pluck up the courage an’ wait for ye, kennin ye would be comin’ hame?’
‘They were jist hingin’ aboot.’
‘Whit happened?’
‘Rob was there, an’ I was there. He looked at me an’ I tried no tae look at him. But I couldnae help it.’
‘An’ then whit?’
‘Whit dae ye mean?’
‘Is that it? He looked at ye?’
‘Aye,’ I said remembering how Rob had looked straight at me, unsmiling, his eyes as dark as the Mill Pool on the Red Burn. ‘Aye that was it.’
A deep voice suddenly boomed from an upstairs window.
‘Minn! Run up tae the tap field, quick. Mrs Davidson forgot tae shut in the hens up by. Dae ye hear me? Minn!’
‘I hear ye, Mr Davidson!’
Annie fell in behind me as I took the path up the hill. ‘Dirty auld bugger,’ she said.
I glanced round at the bedroom window from where the command had come.
‘Annie!’
‘Mrs Davidson was oan her wey oot tae the hens when he geid her the nod.’
‘The nod?’
‘They must think I’m blind or stupid or baith,’ she said. ‘Jist cause I’m up tae ma oxters in the washin-up, disnae mean I cannae use ma een or ma heid. I ken when they’re up tae houghmagandie. He gies her the nod an’ she gaes runnin’. It’s yin bairn efter anither wi’ them, fower an coontin’, nae sooner yin’s drapt but they’re at it again, a new bairn every year near enough.’
Annie thought for a bit. ‘Must be somethin’ a dae wi’ bidin’ oan a ferm. Fornication. It’s a’place ye look oan a ferm.’
I felt my face burn.
Annie laughed loud. ‘I ken whit yer thinkin’, Minn Graham! Yer thinkin’ ye’d like Rob Duncan tae gie ye the nod!’
‘I am not!’
‘Aye ye are!’ Annie chased after me as I ran off.
She caught up at the open gate to the top field where a hen hut nestled in a hollow behind the dyke. I mind staring at the ground where a thousand small brown feathers littered the grass. Hens lay scattered, all dead or nearly so. Inside the coop further carnage awaited. The sound of panicked birds, fluttering wings, and desperate crawing had barely died down – it was still there in the cloud of feathers settling in the dusty air.
‘The fox,’ whispered Annie. ‘He got here afore us.’
‘Aye,’ was all I could say. I knelt down beside a hen, its neck long and distended from the attack, a smear of blood on the ground. I watched the wind ruffle its feathers, lifting them in wee waves, like flooers rippling across a meadow with the summer breeze. I saw how its eyelid was shut over a once-bright eye; scaly legs and feet, poised to run but now still, caught in its stride by the teeth of the fox. The hen was soft to the touch and still warm.
‘Hoo does it have to tak them a’?’ I asked, a lump in my throat. ‘Is yin no enough? Hoo does it have tae tak sae monie?’
‘When they taste blood there’s nae stoppin’ them. It’s in their nature,’ explained Annie, matter-of-fact.
We began lifting them by their feet, three in each hand, for carrying down to the barn. Dochie and the bothy lads would come up for the others. The birds would be hung and plucked the next day, ready for the pot and the market, making the best of a bad situation.
‘Ye ken whit they say aboot a fox,’ said Annie. ‘It’s a sign.’
I shivered, ‘Dinnae.’
We started down the hill, dejected. Shocked.
‘Hey!’ came a voice from below. ‘Have ye heard?’ The ploughman at Blackhill was running along the road. ‘It’s stertit, the war’s stertit.’
‘The war?’ I said, stopping in my tracks. ‘We’re at war?’
Annie marched on, her eye on the steading. She was thinking about how the news of the rout by the fox would be received at the house.
‘We’re at war?’ I stood staring at the view; the patchwork of fields where the harvest was barely started; the woodland and the farms; and the blue hills on the far horizon. I felt the weight of the dead hens in my arms, as the words lingered on my lips. And the full force of their meaning weighed heavily on my breast.
Chapter 17
Summer 1918
John
Summer’s come to this valley where I am a prisoner. I can do nothing but wait for the war to end and regain my strength in the meantime. I manage a walk to the river most days and regular food is helping my body to recover. Mostly, I find a place to sit and let my senses fill with the beauty of what is before me. At first, I couldn’t see it. I saw only terror and death after a long struggle. But several weeks later, as the sun has grown warmer and brighter, my mind has opened up again to the possibilities of the future. It had been closed for too long, shut down by anger and resentment because of what had befallen me and everybody I held dear; closed by memories of the horrors I’d seen, memories that blocked out the good things that happened along the way.
In times of plenty, these things might not amount to much, dismissed as everyday, but in lean times they make the difference between life and death, sanity and the abyss. The touch of a stranger’s hand on your back. The offer of a brew when you’re thirsty and cold. A listening ear when you’re lonely and far from home. Sharing a cigarette and a joke on a frosty night while the noise of hell rages, barely a mile away at the Front.
Or when a soldier grasps your hand for a moment longer than he needs to before going over the top, letting you know he’s terrified, just as you are, and that he’s with you.
The look in a man’s eyes and the smile on his face when he uses his last breath to tell you that life, in spite of it all, is good.
I cannot make sense of war because it is senseless. So many have had their lives cut short but mine has been spared. I will go on because I must and, one day, I might see the purpose in it.
When we first heard that Britain had declared war on Germany, a strange excitement hung in the air where boys – and some men – were concerned. Several from the village left at the first opportunity, worried hostilities might cease before they’d had a whiff of the great adventure. My mother said she was glad that me and Jim were too young for service and my father’s hatred of the warmongers dampened my elation, leaving me with a troubled agitation for pastures new in the company of friends. When the pals got together on the football field or went walking or fishing or poaching, the excitement mounted as we told tales of derring-do, turning each outing into a risky exploit against the enemy. Wee Geordie was ay on the lookout for German spies! In truth, we imagined army life to be a version of the summer camp with guns and bayonets, and medals for valour.
By the end of the first winter, it was certain that the war was going to last much longer than we’d been led to believe at the onset. After those early heady days, when large numbers of men downed tools and took off for recruiting offices, news of casualties and a dip in recruitment led to calls for men to enlist. The dispute over wages that was coming to a head just as war was declared had initially been put to one side in the interests of national security. It fizzled out like a damp squib but the call for a fair rate of pay simmered under the surface and soon came to the boil once again
. Of course, folk who’d nothing to do with the mines and had no idea what it was like to work underground, nor bring up a family on a miner’s wage, had plenty to say about our selfishness and lack of patriotism in holding the country to ransom at a time of national emergency. Regular meetings at the steading kept us informed about the progress of negotiations and gave us an opportunity to debate the issues amongst ourselves. The cost of living was rising and pay needed to take account of this. And though there was increased demand for coal and steel, this hadn’t resulted in higher wages for the workers. Having argued for so long that miners’ pay rates should be linked to the price of coal, the coal masters did a volte face, refusing to increase wage rates accordingly, looking to keep any increased profits to themselves. It was blatant profiteering, according to my father.
On a dark night huddled against a biting wind, the threat of rain never far away, we assembled at the steading waiting for Steeny to come with news. Opinions were traded about what was at stake, how we had got to where we were, and what the motives of the employers and the government had been in the latest negotiations. The union wanted a 20% rise – the owners had offered 10%. Somebody said that even in wartime, employers drove a hard bargain, reluctant to hand over a single penny piece if they didn’t have to. The Miners Federation wanted national negotiations, the employers didn’t, preferring local agreements. Divide and rule was the name of their game as we all knew. We also knew the Scots mineworkers were in a good position to achieve a favourable settlement, since we’d been negotiating almost continually on our own behalf for a whole year and were united more than ever before.
All winter, the government had made noises about wanting a settlement sooner rather than later. Asquith supported the owners’ offer of 10%, with local talks for anything over and above, which didn’t go down well with the workers. On the other hand, the government was encouraging the employers to cooperate with the unions to avoid stoppages. It had surely dawned on those in the corridors of power how important the mining industry was to the economy, especially during this period of national emergency. Maybe, said an older voice, it was dawning on everybody how important the workers were to the production of coal and, at last, folk were seeing the justice of a decent living wage in return for hard labour. But he’d barely made his point when a loud groan started up, a voice said they’d heard it all before, and we had.