by Mary Easson
Two gleaming vehicles, newly washed and polished, stood by the open doors of the garage as we passed. The stable yard seemed deserted but an elderly figure, hard at work, could be seen through an open door.
‘I heard Billy Dodds has joined up,’ I said.
‘That’s his grandfather in the stable at the far end. Says he’ll help out when he can, till Billy comes back,’ said Phee.
‘We miss Billy,’ remarked Catherine. ‘But one of the gillies helps out with the driving when required.’
‘And I lend a hand in that department, when I’m here!’ Phee reminded everyone.
‘You’re a wonder,’ said Catherine with a smile.
‘Is old Major around?’ I scanned the stables and the paddock for my favourite pony. Taking a couple of sugar lumps from my pocket, I went over to the stables, examining one empty stall after another until I found him. He pushed his nose into my hand in search of what he knew was there. Phee gave his neck a long, firm stroke, rested her cheek against his head.
‘At least they didn’t take you, Major,’ she said.
The stables looked desolate when it dawned on me that all of the horses, except old Major and a foal, had gone. They should have been in the paddock, clad in winter blankets against the cold April breeze after weeks indoors, enjoying the freedom of a canter, sniffing new growth and longer days on the air. Catherine explained how men had come from the Ministry, with papers and money to purchase horses for the army. Phee said she was glad she hadn’t been there to see Prince and Fergus, and the two mares, being led off to be loaded into wagons with dozens of others, shut away from the light for the rail journey south to the Channel ports.
We strolled down the track to Redburn, hoping for happier prospects and feeling the need to get moving on a day that was becoming chillier by the moment.
‘We can’t go all the way, I’m afraid,’ warned Catherine.
The sound of woodsmen at work was immediately obvious: the loud thwack of metal on wood, voices shouting words of warning as trees were brought down with a crash of branches in the undergrowth.
‘Prices for wood are at a premium. It’s needed at the Front, for building trenches and the like. They’ll take anything they can get their hands on, except beech,’ explained Catherine, shushing Clive who was starting to complain.
‘We’ll retain some for the mine, of course. The manager is developing the seam as fast as the men are able. Thank Goodness we can do our bit here on the estate. It does give one some comfort.’
Her brows knitted and not at all comforted, Rose stared at the wood as it succumbed to the woodsman’s axe. Phee’s hand went to her throat when a gap on the skyline appeared. The landscape of her earliest memories was changing before her eyes. A feeling of dread surged through my being. The loss of the wood was terrible to contemplate. Was there no end to the devastation being wrought in the name of freedom?
Courtesy of the war in France, Richard and I called a truce at home. Or at least, I managed to bite my tongue and walk away rather than face up to him as before. That is, until one day when we were discussing preparations for a dinner to which Ernest Black had been invited. Richard insisted I attend and would not accept my refusal. I knew that anything my brother suggested had an ulterior motive so I dug in my heels but he was not about to give in either. It took a whole hour in the garden before I managed to calm down.
Later, I came upon Sarah arranging the minister’s tea tray exactly as he liked it: tongs beside the sugar bowl, to the right not the left; a small jug of milk, only half full, no more no less; a silver teaspoon with his favourite china cup and saucer; a piece of fruit cake on a matching plate with a mother-of-pearl handled knife to the right; and a small tea pot covered by a tea cosy, embroidered by our late mother. I watched the girl move the teapot half an inch to the left, adjusting the position of the other items with precision until the arrangement seemed satisfactory.
‘Careful, Sarah. They say you get like the people you work with,’ I teased.
I swiftly halved the piece of cake before Sarah was able to take the tray away.
When she returned, we settled down with our own tea and began a conversation about what was happening in the village, as always slow and stilted at first till she warmed up, a necessary prelude to our discussions even though we had worked together quite happily for nearly a year by then. Sarah soon updated me about her family: who was working where, what the marriage prospects were for her sisters – Marion and the footman at Rowanhill House; Nell and a miner who lived in the next row; Minn, the farm servant, who was sweet on a lad yet nothing seemed to be coming of it; and the minutiae of life in a miner’s cottage with a host of younger children of dubious parentage, all looked after by Tom and Jean Graham and two uncles.
I asked her if she hoped to be married one day and she said, of course, it was common knowledge that marriage was what every girl wanted for herself. It was only natural and better for all concerned in the long run. But she thought it was only a good thing if you could marry somebody of your own choosing which I wholeheartedly agreed with. It would be terrible, she continued like a tap that wouldn’t turn off, to marry somebody like Bobby Cherrie who lashed out at his wife with his fists and was well known for spending his wages in the Village Inn, leaving nothing to feed his ten children; or Harry McGonigle who up and left his wife and child for big May Heeps, her with the bright red face because of her work as a setter in the brickworks.
When she eventually stopped talking, she looked at me expectantly as if I should carry on where she left off but I was not about to give away my heart so I nodded and simply said, ‘You’ll know when the right one comes along and if he doesn’t... there’s plenty to keep a woman occupied and let her live a useful life.’
A useful life! Was that my fate? By then, in addition to my work at the Sabbath School and on the committees at the church and in the village, I was helping to fundraise for the Red Cross, encouraging everyone to knit warm socks to put in the parcels that were sent to the Front. I also spent a lot of time helping Highland Mary, since the district nurse had gone off overseas immediately after the outbreak of war. A replacement had been found very quickly but only lasted a month before she was dismissed for drinking gin on duty and charging ten shillings for delivering babies when the service should have been free to those on the books. I did all of that whilst keeping house for my brother who gave me nothing but grief.
‘Ma Uncle Peter’s enlisted, Miss Fraser,’ Sarah confided eventually. ‘Mind how I telt ye that Bessie Morrison fae the Co-op was tellin’ him he should join up?’
I remembered. ‘They go dancing together, don’t they?’
‘Aye. Ma Uncle Peter’s fond o’ the dancin’.’
‘And fond of Bessie Morrison by the sounds of things.’
‘Aye, he is. But Jean disnae like her. Weel, she did but she got fair mad when she heard that Bessie was sayin’ Uncle Peter should join up or she widnae be seen at the dancin’ wi’ him again.’
That made me very sad to hear.
‘Jean says there’s ower monie folk gaun tae France. She says Uncle Peter should stey in Blackrigg where he’s needed to bring up the coal.’
‘I expect he’s thought long and hard before making his decision. It has to be a matter of conscience at the end of the day.’
‘Aye, Miss. But I’m inclined tae agree wi’ Jean. It’s a’ richt for Bessie Morrison tellin’ folk they should gang tae France when she disnae have tae gang hersel.’
I could think of a few people just like that as I recalled my brother’s recent sermon and how certain individuals had lapped it up.
‘Well this isn’t getting the work done,’ I said, feeling the need to get busy. ‘We’ve a pot of soup and a stew to prepare for dinner. Would you mind setting the table for three, please?’
Sarah couldn’t hide her surprise.
‘Yes, three. Mr Black
, Mr Fraser and myself are eating together tonight.’ I guessed some of what was going through the girl’s mind after the shouting match between Richard and myself earlier.
‘And when you’re finished, you can get off home to help Mrs Graham with all of those children. And you’ll take her the rest of that cake with you when you go.’
Richard could do without for a day or two, I had decided.
Later that evening, he sat in his usual place at the top of the table, the warm glow of the fire playing on his back. ‘Do you have any plans to enlist, Ernest?’ he asked, once the soup had been served and grace had been said.
‘Lovely soup, Miss Fraser. Cock-a-leekie, my favourite.’
‘Are you avoiding my question, headmaster?’
‘Richard, really!’ I was aghast.
‘A valid question in these times of peril for our country, Elizabeth,’ Richard countered.
‘This is neither the time nor the place for such questions. He is our guest.’
Ernest tried to interject but it was almost as if he wasn’t there.
‘We are at war, Elizabeth. I was merely asking.’ Richard took a loud satisfying sup of his soup.
‘Ernest’s work is extremely important for the future of our country,’ I countered. ‘What can be more important than the education of young minds? That work doesn’t suddenly become unimportant because we are at war. His work prevents him from enlisting.’
‘Thank you, Elizabeth, for making that point,’ Ernest interjected. ‘It is a matter of conscience and duty, of course. To enlist or not to enlist? That is the question.’ He looked very serious, a deep frown on his forehead, as if the question was a source of torment. ‘But I do feel that my place is here, with my pupils.’
‘Precisely,’ I said. ‘Not everyone can go to the Front, surely? You cannot abandon people here who need you, Ernest. What are we fighting this war for, if not for the children, our future?’
‘Ernest is right, Elizabeth. It is a matter for each individual to search his conscience about the best action to take. The war is, of course, part of that timeless struggle between Good and Evil, the never-ending battle for Man’s soul. It is there in our daily lives, in the mundane, the everyday and now in the most extraordinary circumstance of war with Germany. The Kaiser, devil incarnate, has come to test our mettle, our nerve, and we must rise against him.’
‘And we do that in our different ways,’ offered Ernest.
‘And by remaining with your pupils, that is your way?’ probed Richard. ‘Whilst their loved ones lay their lives on the line for their country, their teacher remains here in safety. Is that a fine example to set children grieving for their fathers?’
‘I cannot condone the violence of war by volunteering for action, I’m afraid. I do not believe that the war is just, or was necessary from the beginning. Diplomacy at the highest level could have prevented it, had the parties involved truly sought to avoid bloodshed. The foreign policy of the main protagonists has, over many years, brought us to this point in history.’ Ernest stared at Richard, forcing him to look away.
Ernest continued, ‘I can hardly believe what is happening at this very moment to the beautiful countryside of northern France. Such humble and hospitable people as I have met on my visits, caught up in a conflict that was none of their doing.’
‘And you will not lift a finger to help them?’ Richard persisted.
‘As Byron would have it, is not the conscience the oracle of God?’ asked Ernest sadly. ‘My place is here in Blackrigg. This is where I can do my best work.’
I turned on my brother. ‘You, of course, are prohibited from enlistment by your calling, Richard.’
‘I am indeed,’ he sighed. ‘I must follow the path the Lord has laid before me. It is my calling and my duty.’ Richard sat with his elbows on the table, his hands interlinked, as if he was thinking great thoughts.
How convenient, I thought. You preach from the safety of the pulpit, using God’s Word in support of enlistment, provoking others to put themselves in the firing line.
I rose to clear the empty plates and remove the tureen, still half full of soup. It crossed my mind to empty it over my brother’s sanctimonious head. In order to avoid such a calamity, I quickly made my way to the kitchen, blinking back tears of frustration brought on by Richard’s hypocrisy, his rudeness towards his guest, and by the enormity of the peril that faced the country at war, especially the plight of those at the sharp end: the men at the Front. The horror of it was almost too much to bear. When I thought about it too deeply, it threatened to overwhelm me, to suck me under. I had my own way of dealing with such thoughts and took a deep breath. Best to keep busy. That was my saviour.
I retrieved serving dishes from the warming oven, began the dash through the cold house to ensure the main course remained hot. But I was drawn up short at the door of the dining room. Richard had mentioned my name. They were talking about me. The heat of the dishes burned through to my hands but I persevered. However, they had heard me, were suspicious, their talk suddenly reverting to the spring weather and nesting birds of all things. I entered the room saying I would be back with the plates, then ran to the kitchen and back again in case I missed something of the conversation.
‘Mind your fingers, they’re terribly hot,’ I warned. ‘I’ll be back with the stew.’
I lingered outside the door. They said nothing for a while. When Richard began his voice was low.
‘The Mission have said there is great need at the Front, well, not at the Front exactly but behind the lines. So I’ve indicated my interest meantime. Told them I cannot go immediately. But once I have made arrangements then I will be in a position to go and do my duty: providing spiritual support to our men, who have seen the horror of war at first hand.’
I swallowed hard. Richard seemed to be contemplating joining some sort of church mission abroad. For the troops. It put our earlier discussion into a new perspective entirely. Perhaps I had misjudged him. I craned my neck to hear a little better.
‘Do have more potato, Ernest. There’s hardly enough there to feed a sparrow.’
‘No thank you. What will happen to Elizabeth in the meantime?’
‘Well, she can’t stay here on her own. It wouldn’t be seemly, especially if the Kirk brings in another minister on a temporary basis until I return. I’ll have to make arrangements. She is entirely dependent on me.’
‘Mmmm.’ Ernest was thinking. ‘Yes, more turnip, please. Mmmm, very nice with the butter and a little pepper, thank you. Elizabeth is a very good cook, I must say. So, what do you have in mind for her exactly?’
‘That’s where you come in, dear Ernest. That’s what I want to speak to you about. Make sure to tarry a while over the coffee later on, will you? We’ll continue our discussion later when Elizabeth is clearing up.’
I ran on tip-toe to the kitchen, my eyes and mouth open wide. I nearly dropped the dish of stew when I removed it from the oven. My cheeks flushed bright red as I took in the enormity of what I had just heard. What was Richard planning for me and what did it have to do with the village schoolmaster? I could barely contemplate the possibilities. I brushed down my skirt and breathed deeply before returning to the dining room where both diners seemed to be eagerly awaiting my return.
Chapter 18
John
My father didn’t know what to make of things when the war first started. The differences between the employers and the unions were initially set aside in the national interest. The plans of the triple industrial alliance of miners, railway and transport workers’ unions for a major confrontation over pay and conditions disappeared like autumn leaves in the teeth of a gale, and the Scottish miners’ dispute evaporated into nothing overnight. The coal owners announced their intention to drop their request for a reduction in wage rates below seven shillings but maintained their right to resurrect the policy as soon as hostili
ties were over. At first, Alex near lost his reason for getting out of bed in the morning. It was as if the rug had been pulled from under his feet. He’d go quiet for long periods, sulking like a spoiled wean. My mother, who’d endured many years of his moods, took the brunt of it. She could give as good as she got but soon learned to hold her tongue. This was a different Alex, one who seemed to have lost all hope for a better world, who could see no light at the end of the tunnel of injustice. Even during the negotiations that ended so well for the union with a pay rise of 18½%, his mood was black. His anger at the iniquity of sending men from the mining villages to fight other workers overwhelmed him. He called it a capitalists’ war. Innocents were dying and children were being left fatherless because the rich and powerful on both sides wanted more than they already had.
The usual litany of problems and mishaps continued at the pits – a fire at the coalface of Broadrigg No.3 left two men badly burned; a man was electrocuted by new lighting underground; a runaway hutch rendered a lad unconscious. I was some way behind Alex on the pit road the day he found out about Stoneyrigg Pit, the one the Company had closed down years past. As ever, his haversack was slung over one shoulder, the frayed collar of his woollen jacket turned up, scant protection against the wind that whipped round the sheds and through the bare branches of the hedgerow beside the track. I watched him stride out ahead, and in every step, I saw the anger that burned inside of him. He seemed to linger at the top of the hill, in spite of himself, studying new activity around the entrance to the old pit. A pile of wood and iron sheeting had appeared in the yard by the old winding shed. Men were busy around two big trucks, removing tarpaulins, emptying crates. Baird and Sons, Pit Sinkers, written along one side. So, they were opening up Stoneyrigg. The rumours had been true.
I knew he would not take it well, his fury ready to choke the life out of him. The sounds of heavy boots advancing up the road from behind got him moving, the last thing he wanted was a cheery word. I hurried on after him but thought better of it, hung back for my own sake. I didn’t go home straight away, in spite of my need for a seat in a warm room, but lingered in the street instead, hands in pockets, just out of sight but close-by for the sake of my mother. When she appeared in the street with a knife in one hand and my father’s mud-caked trousers in the other, ready to scrape away the grime, she saw me, indicated the door of our cottage with her head and gave me the merest hint of a smile. Thanks, John, she was saying.