The Crofter's Daughter

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘Things have changed too much in the last few years, Jack. I can’t keep up. So many gone, too many dead, too many missing like Ian and Sinclair, lads who should be marrying and settling down here. I want the old days back.’ She stopped and let her mind remember the old days, school days when every new day was a miracle, the only concern being whether or not Robin Morrison would beat Ian to the Dux’s medal, and he had. And now Ian was missing somewhere in France and Robin was so far away, not only in distance but in experience. She could never meet either of them on the same terms again. She heard Robin’s voice – when are you going to stop fighting your brother’s battles? – and she began to cry.

  Jack jumped up from the seat. ‘Mairi, don’t greet. Here’s your father coming. He’ll think I’ve said something.’

  But Colin was too excited to notice his daughter’s quickly dried tears. He was walking, almost running up the path, dogs gambolling like puppies at his heels, so infected were they by their master’s good spirits.

  ‘I met the postie and saved his old legs a walk,’ he shouted. ‘A letter, Mairi, a letter from Ian. He’s alive.’ For the first time he noticed Jack. ‘Hello, lad. Your father sent you for something? Come on in and Mairi’ll make us some tea while I read this again. I didn’t take it all in the first time.’

  He hurried into the house but Mairi still sat. Ian alive? Her knees felt very weak as if they could not possibly support her if she were to stand up now. They had had one telegram from the War Office to tell them that Ian was missing and that had arrived weeks after their last letter from Ian himself. What if this letter had been written before the telegram was sent? What if Colin’s joy were to be dashed to pieces again? She could not bear that.

  ‘Mairi. Are you all right?’ It was Jack. Jack being gentle and sympathetic; goodness, how much more was to change? That at least was a change for the better and Mairi looked up at him and smiled. He was all right, Jack, not nearly so bad as most people said; a little spoiled, nothing more.

  ‘Thanks, Jack, it was just a shock, that’s all. Thinking about Ian and talking about him and there was Dad with a letter. Didn’t seem real for a moment. Let’s go in and see what Ian has to say.’

  Colin was sitting at the table and the light had indeed gone out of his eyes again. Even his shoulders sagged as if his great back could no longer hold up their weight.

  ‘They’re saying he’s a deserter, Mairi. They’re going to shoot my boy.’ He held up Ian’s letter and Mairi took it in trembling fingers and began to read.

  Try not to worry because I know it will be all right. The truth will come out; it always does. Isn’t that what you always said, Dad? The French colonel believes me and he is speaking for me.

  In the meantime, I’m in jail but it’s not too bad. Some of the jailors are decent men and some are right buggers, but isn’t that what life is like everywhere. If the worst happens, believe that I was only trying to find my way back to my unit, which seems to have been wiped out in the raid that hit my ambulance. I had to see them for myself, my patients. You do understand that. I was responsible for them, and the colonel thinks that I was probably concussed; it wasn’t treated because it was a bit difficult there for a while, and so, when I left the boys who picked me up, I didn’t really know what I was doing. They’re letting another officer come in to question me. It will probably depend on whether or not he believes me. Mairi, if anyone asks about me, tell them I carry the letter everywhere.

  Your loving son and brother,

  Ian C. McGloughlin

  ‘What’s he talking about, Mairi, if anyone asks for him?’

  ‘Later, Dad.’ She could not tell him about Arabella Huntingdon while Jack was in the room.

  ‘This sounds a bit scary, Colin,’ said Jack. ‘Him being in a French jail. They shoot . . .’ Too late he realised what he was saying.

  ‘My son never ran away from anything in his life, Jack Black. He volunteered for this bloody war he doesn’t believe in and he wanted to do his job properly. If he was injured when his ambulance got hit, he should have had medical attention.’

  ‘But who will speak for him, Dad? Who will tell this officer that he’s a good brave man?’

  Colin leaned forward at the table and put his head in his hands. He was scared stiff. His laddie was in a French prison and they wanted to shoot him. For the first time in his life he had absolutely no idea what to do.

  Mairi put her hand on his broad shoulders and picked up the letter. ‘This French colonel is going to speak for him.’

  ‘What good’s a Frenchman to my boy?’ Colin would not be consoled.

  ‘I’d better away home,’ said Jack. ‘It’s not a good time to stop.’

  Colin did not even acknowledge him as Mairi walked with Jack to the door.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mairi. If there’s anything I can do . . .?’

  Mairi smiled bravely up at him. ‘Thanks, Jack, but I’ve had an idea.’

  ‘And you’ll not change your mind about going to the pictures with me?’

  ‘Maybe you’ll change your mind about wanting to be seen with the sister of a deserter?’

  ‘Oh, I’d never do that, Mairi,’ said Jack as he turned his horse round and prepared to mount.

  ‘Wrong answer,’ said Mairi as she watched him ride away. ‘You should have said: Ian’s no deserter.’

  She returned to the farmhouse where Colin was still sitting, head in hands. ‘Dad, it’s a bit early for your tea. I’d like to go out for a bit. I won’t be long.’

  He said nothing and Mairi looked at him sadly, her big strong father who had handled everything always, and hurried upstairs where she washed her face quickly, brushed her hair into some order and put on her Sunday dress. She was going to the Big House.

  ‘Sir Humphrey,’ said the very superior person who answered the clanging bell on the front door, ‘is not at home,’ and he went to shut the door in her face.

  ‘Please,’ begged Mairi, ‘I suppose I should have gone to the servants’ entrance; I wasn’t thinking. I have to see the laird. It’s really important.’

  Inexorably the door was closing on her. ‘Please,’ begged Mairi.

  ‘Good heavens, Beaton. There’s no need to manhandle callers.’ Rupert Grey-Watson, in a dinner jacket and bow tie, had come into the hall.

  Mairi had never seen a man in evening dress before. He looked, he looked . . . so . . . so right. She smiled at the young man and he smiled back.

  ‘You should really have gone to the other door. The housekeeper would have answered that one, but come along in and Beaton will show you down to her room.’

  Mairi stepped into the hall but refused to go with the butler. ‘I came hoping to see the laird,’ she said and was grateful that her voice did not squeak nearly so much as she had thought it would. ‘He did say if he could do anything . . .’

  ‘I thought you were looking for employment, Miss, Miss . . .’ He abandoned the effort to remember the insignificant daughter of one of his father’s poorer tenants. ‘M’father’s in town, I’m afraid . . .’

  He broke off as they heard a door farther down the great hall open, and he turned. Arabella Huntingdon, in a lovely dark blue satin dinner gown, stood in the doorway.

  ‘It’s nothing, Bella, just one of the tenants with a problem. I suppose it is a problem?’

  He looked down at Mairi again. ‘I say, you’re the sister of, what was his name, terrific shot?’

  ‘Ian McGloughlin.’

  ‘Miss McGloughlin.’ Arabella had hurried forward. She had a lace handkerchief in her hands and she lifted it in a graceful gesture to her lips. ‘Miss McGloughlin,’ she said again. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Come into the library,’ said Rupert. ‘The entire household is going to hear your business if we stand out here wittering at one another.’

  He propelled Mairi into the room that Arabella had just left and, even in her distress, Mairi could see how beautiful it was, with its high ornate ceilings
, its huge windows draped with dark blue velvet curtains that were held back by gold cords, its dark shiny bookcases with shelf after shelf of dark leather-bound books.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Mairi said. Somehow the room calmed her. She was no longer afraid. ‘We have had a distressing letter from my brother and I hoped to ask Sir Humphrey to . . . intervene, use his influence, I don’t know.’

  ‘Sit down, Miss McGloughlin,’ said Arabella gently. ‘Rupert, be an angel and pour us some wine.’

  As he turned to do her bidding she whispered agitatedly to Mairi, ‘Don’t mention my letter, please. Ah, Rupert, how nice. Here, Miss McGloughlin, sip this slowly. It’s one of my uncle’s best clarets.’

  ‘Claret doesn’t travel,’ said Rupert. ‘Just as well, or he’d have taken it with him. Now, let’s have the problem, Miss McGloughlin.’

  Mairi put the glass down carefully on a little table by her seat and clenched her hands on her lap. She had to say the right thing, she had to. Arabella was on her side, she knew, but she could tell nothing from Rupert’s demeanour. And he was the one who could help, if he chose.

  ‘Ian volunteered in the spring. He became an ambulance driver and he was sent to France. So many battles, he said, and no rest between. They have to try to get the wounded out. He wrote about how content he was. He hates the war but he felt he was doing something useful, something that wasn’t against his principles. Then he disappeared and we heard that his entire unit was hit by aircraft fire; Ian was missing, presumed dead. But now he’s sent a letter. He’s in prison and they say he’s a deserter.’

  Arabella gasped and again the useless little scrap of lace went to her lips. Rupert gave her a strange look but turned to Mairi.

  ‘Explain, Miss McGloughlin.’

  ‘He was pulled out of his burning ambulance by some men of the Gordon Highlanders but they wouldn’t let him go back; he wanted to check his passengers. He needed to check them. They were his responsibility. He thinks he was injured because he’s lost a few months, can’t understand where July and August went, but he tried to go back, in case, just . . . I know it sounds strange but he needed to see for himself. A French patrol found him and he’s in jail. The French Colonel knows he’s not a deserter but it depends on . . .’ She could say no more.

  Rupert’s face was cold. ‘And what do you expect my father to do, Miss McGloughlin?’

  ‘He said, if there was ever anything he could do.’

  ‘He has no military rank, no influence.’

  Arabella almost sprang up from her chair. ‘But you do, Rupert. You’re a lawyer and a soldier. You know Ian would never desert. I think he’s so wonderful to try to find his men.’

  ‘Your feelings are embarrassingly obvious, Bella, and would do nothing in a court of law. Evidence is what’s needed, not hysterical outpourings from silly little girls.’

  White-faced, Mairi stood up. She had failed. She would leave before she humiliated herself further. ‘Thank you for your patience,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘Do sit down, Miss McGloughlin,’ said Rupert. ‘My father would at least expect to find out as much as I can about your brother. He had him in mind as gamekeeper here one day and, Lord knows but good servants are getting harder and harder to find.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In March 1917 the German Army retreated to the Hindenburg Line and on 6 April the United States of America entered the conflict by declaring war on Germany. In May American destroyers arrived in Britain, which had been suffering from the unrestricted German submarine warfare.

  Mairi helped her furious father deliver two sets of twin calves, male and female. Colin was angry because he knew that for some reason the males would be useless. Male twins always were. Thank God most of the sheep were dropping twins or even triplets in some cases; no problems with male lambs. Another good year. The war was good for farmers, good enough that Colin could send a donation to the Scottish Rural Workers’ Friendly Society which had told members that there were now fifteen thousand members on active service and so even more money was needed to help the Society make small sickness and disability payments. Everyone was looking for money. Churches wanted funds to help with Sunday morning refreshments to soldiers. A Parcel Fund for Prisoners of War had started.

  Colin worked as he had never worked before and he had always been tireless. Only by exhausting his mind and his body could he hope to fall asleep when he reached the haven of the old double bed he had slept in alone for over twenty years.

  ‘When’s somebody going to ask for a donation for people like me, Mairi?’ he asked in despair as he watched his daughter work beside him. He had never wanted her to soil her hands with farm work. Useless for her to tell him that she was happy. How could she be happy?

  But Mairi was happy, as happy as she could be. She loved tying herself into a pair of Ian’s old trousers and working outside, day in, day out. She loved watching the sky in all its moods; she enjoyed seeing lambs making up games to play with one another. If only, if only . . . but she would not think, she would not allow herself to think.

  ‘Mairi.’

  The voice from behind her was a voice she dreamed about but had not heard for too long. She forgot that she was wearing her brother’s clothes; she forgot that her nails were broken and her hands were dirty. She turned round and joy shone out of her eyes.

  ‘Robin,’ she said and threw herself into his arms and then, rigid with embarrassment, she pulled herself back. ‘Sorry,’ she stumbled. ‘It’s just so lovely to have someone come back alive.’

  She sensed him pull away too. She looked up at him. There were grey wings of hair above his ears. Robin? Grey? He was only twenty-eight. I’m twenty-six. We forgot to celebrate my birthday. She laughed ruefully and Robin smiled, relaxed again.

  ‘Do I look so funny?’

  ‘No, you look . . . distinguished. As you should, a decorated soldier.’

  ‘I’ve only just heard about Ian. Can you tell me what happened? I didn’t write because I didn’t know, Mairi, not because I didn’t care.’

  ‘It’s so wrong, so very wrong.’ She looked up at him again and this time she saw the lines of pain etched into his face. ‘Come in and sit down, Robin. I have some soup on.’

  He went with her and she saw that his left leg was stiff. ‘You didn’t get that skiting down the Schoolhouse steps, did you?’ she said, and was delighted to hear his shout of joyous boyish laughter.

  ‘I could have wrung your neck, Mairi McGloughlin. That hurt like Hell. Small consolation to note that you did look back to make sure I hadn’t broken my neck.’

  He went to the table and she noted that he was glad to sit. He saw her looking at him and sat up straight. ‘I’m almost fit,’ he said. ‘One more check up by the medics and it’s back to work.’

  ‘Work? Is that what you call it?’

  ‘Calling it work keeps me sane, Mairi. Back to killing Germans doesn’t fill me with enthusiasm.’ He grabbed her hand and looked at the dirt engrained in her fingers. ‘Who first said war is Hell?’

  ‘Probably one of your silly old Romans,’ she said but she did not pull her hand away. ‘I’ll get the soup, Robin,’ she said gently, ‘and then we’ll talk.’

  He released her and she went into the kitchen and tried to scrub her hands clean and then she filled two bowls with her vegetable soup and carried them back into the front room.

  ‘I’ve coddled a couple of eggs in the soup, Robin. We’re allowed to keep any that are cracked and one of our hens has an awful habit of pushing one or two eggs out of the nest every now and again.’

  ‘Long may she continue to be so clumsy,’ he said as he almost inhaled the soup. ‘We’re having an awful lot of oatmeal brose at home just now.’

  ‘Isn’t Jessie Turnbull doing for your father? I thought she was a good housekeeper.’

  ‘Oh, the place is immaculate and Dad says she kept good fires going last winter. She’s doing the best
with what she can get.’

  ‘No flair,’ Mairi pronounced complacently. ‘I’ll give you some of my oatmeal cakes to take home with you. Oatmeal, potatoes, a cracked egg . . .’ She stopped talking. She was deliberately chattering to avoid talking about Ian.

  ‘He did not desert his post,’ she said.

  ‘No one who knows Ian would ever think he did, Mairi.’

  She smiled at him gratefully. ‘I’ll never be able to thank Captain Grey-Watson enough. I’m sure that his intervention prevented Ian from being shot. The officer who was sent in to question him was the one who had spoken to him when he went into Dundee to join up. He called him a Conchie, said he had never wanted to fight, but Rupert, Captain Grey-Watson, explained that Ian had enlisted before he was conscripted, and he was heading back for the battlefield when the French patrol found him. That was in his favour and the Highlanders sent a statement about kitting him out with bits and pieces because his uniform had to be destroyed. He had no identity tags or papers, nothing but a letter from me and . . . one from a friend.’

  ‘Why is he in prison?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not fair but Ian says nothing is fair and to remember that they could have shot him. He’s in a prison camp, hard labour. They said it was a warning for others that they won’t be treated so leniently. He had what was called a hearing, not a full court martial, and I think they didn’t really know what to do with him.’

  ‘Can I write to him?’

  She looked at him steadily and saw Ian’s best friend, Ian’s oldest friend. They had gone travelling after all, but not together. For a moment she saw them, backs against an old tree, books of poetry in their hands. Where were those innocent boys now? Did they still live in the grown men?

  ‘I’ll get the address.’ She went to the desk where Colin kept Ian’s letters. ‘There will always be this stigma, Robin,’ she said, her back to him so that he could not see her face. ‘He’s in prison, doing hard labour, and so obviously he did something wrong; that’s what people will think.’