The Crofter's Daughter

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘Ian, I don’t want to live with you and Bella, if you ever swallow your pride and marry her, and frankly I want to be here if Robin comes home. The new owners of the estate will put a tenant in the Big House and so you and Bella won’t come back.’

  ‘Yes we will . . . I mean we would if it was necessary.’

  ‘Ian, you can hardly wait to leave this farm, and I don’t mind, really I don’t. I think you and Bella should start somewhere else, probably not in her house either, but that’s up to you.’

  Mairi had done a great deal of thinking since Christmas. A marriage between Ian and Arabella would not be welcomed by the Grey-Watson family but it would happen and Arabella Huntingdon-McGloughlin would not fit in at Windydykes farm. Neither would Mairi McGloughlin fit her sister-in-law’s lifestyle. Ian would. He would adapt. He had never liked the farm; a cuckoo, perhaps, in another bird’s nest.

  ‘We will marry this year, but nothing will be done before I see how this first book is received.’

  Mairi looked at him shrewdly. He was so strong when his beloved Bella was hundreds of miles away. His love and desire for her shone from his eyes when she was with him. Which would be stronger, his principles or his longing?

  She smiled. ‘Ian, does it really matter who is paying the rent? Don’t waste your life or Bella’s. Marry her and don’t think about me. Maybe the new owners will be enlightened men and will allow me to take on the tenancy.’

  Ian stood up. It was winter and there was nothing growing in his fields but there was still work to be done. ‘If I could see you settled, Mairi. You’re my sister and it’s my duty . . .’

  Mairi rounded on him and her eyes were full of anger. ‘Duty? You owe me nothing, Ian. You have more than done your duty. If the estate throws me out then of course I will stay with you and Bella until . . . until some other arrangement can be made, but for God’s sake, put Bella and her happiness first. Don’t have her growing old and wrinkled and frustrated too.’

  Ian laughed and got slapped for his sense of humour. ‘Och, Mairi,’ he said, still laughing, ‘if you could see yourself. Anything less old and wrinkled I have yet to see.’

  She went to slap him again and then started to laugh too. ‘Well, give me frustrated at least. Away and tend to your beasts and I’ll take my frustrations out on a batch of dough. And when are you going to look at the post after old Davie cycling out here and him two minutes from retirement?’

  He had forgotten the letters and she watched him flip through them, smiling as he saw the usual thick missive from Bella. She turned away. No, once again there was nothing, not even a picture card from Robin. She was wrong to keep hoping. To leave the farm and follow Ian south was probably the most dignified way to handle the situation. He had known that he was going to leave her, that last day when she had visited him, and she had known but neither had had the courage to speak of what was really in their hearts.

  *

  She had met him in the greenhouse, a greenhouse bigger even than the one belonging to the Big House.

  Robin had smiled shyly when she had come in.

  ‘It’s snowing, Mairi,’ he had said.

  ‘Yes, but it was exciting watching the snow from the train, Robin. And the train was warm.’

  She had moved closer to him and immediately he had picked up two of his little pots. ‘Seedlings. I shall give you one, Mairi.’

  She moved back towards the bench on the other side of the room and he had relaxed again. ‘Is Dad with you?’ He had looked round as if expecting his father to materialise before him.

  ‘He’s talking to the doctor. He’ll join us for tea.’

  ‘You’re good to come here, Mairi, but it’s such a long way and . . .’ He stopped and very carefully, as if it were the most important thing he would ever do, he measured soil into a pot. ‘There must be other things to do, I mean, other . . . friends . . .’

  ‘No one more important than you, Robin.’

  At that he had turned and taken a quick step towards her and then he had stopped again and turned back to his bench. He had put his pots down and his hands gripped the edge of the bench so that she could see his knuckles standing out against the dirt on his skin. She ached to run and hold him, to turn him against her breast, to show him that he was safe, but she dared not. He was too fragile.

  ‘I’ve brought my last pot of raspberry jam,’ she said instead.

  His voice was low. ‘I love your jam, Mairi.’

  ‘April! April,’ yelled Ian behind her and she was propelled back into the present. She turned to see his face suffused by joy. ‘April,’ he yelled again. It seemed to be all he was capable of saying.

  ‘April what?’

  ‘Publication, Mairi. My poems are to be published in April.’

  Immediately she forgot Robin. ‘Oh, Ian, how wonderful! Come on, don’t leave me in suspense. Tell me everything.’

  He handed her the letter from his publisher. ‘There’s to be a launch, like for a ship. I’ll have to go to London. You’ll come with me, Mairi, on the train.’ He grabbed his bonnet. ‘I want to write to Bella but the cattle . . .’

  ‘I’ll feed them.’

  ‘No you won’t. Half an hour won’t make any difference; I’m still farmer here. You stay in the kitchen, wee sister, where you belong.’

  He laughed, kissed the envelope from Bella and put it back on the table to read later, jammed his bonnet on his head and went out, and Mairi was left with the letter that surely, surely would change her brother’s life.

  Ian, a published poet. She had never actually believed that she would see the day. It seemed the kind of thing that happened to other people but here it stated that his first author’s copy would be with him shortly.

  London? She would go to London with him. She would stand proudly beside him . . . Mairi stopped in exultant mid-glow. No, she would not. Arabella Huntingdon, in silver furs and sparkling diamonds, would stand beside him.

  ‘Not in April surely,’ she tried to laugh and the laugh caught on a sob. She was not crying because Arabella would be there, but because Colin would not. How proud he would have been.

  She told Ian so as they ate their dinner later, after he had done his chores, read his letter, and answered both the letter from the publisher and the letter from Arabella.

  Ian’s face, which had been so full of life, became cold. ‘Would he? I’m not sure that his feelings might have been more embarrassment, but we’ll never know.’

  ‘Ian, he did not join up because he was ashamed of you. He wanted to do his share so that it would be over for you and the boy he saved and all the other boys, sooner.’

  Ian put down his spoon and stood up. He pushed his chair in to the table. ‘Please, Mairi. I just don’t want to think about Dad. I want to think about Bella and April and nothing else.’

  She watched him as he left the room and then listened to the sound of his boots as he walked up the stairs and across the landing into his room. The door closed and she could imagine him going to his table and taking refuge in his books or his writing. Wearily she too got up and began to clear away the unfinished meal, shaking her head a little at the waste and at the thought of Ian without food.

  He’s a big lad and knows where the pantry is. I’m not going to worry about him.

  After she had washed up and prepared the table for breakfast she went to her father’s desk where all the papers relating to the farm were kept and reread the letters about the take-over. All existing tenancy agreements would be honoured. That meant that she was safe until September. But by the autumn, if Ian married and left the farm, she would be homeless unless she was awarded the tenancy. And, she decided, she would fight for her right to stay.

  *

  The next few weeks were busy. Usually, in the cold months, a farmer could relax a little, take care of repairs to his house or his steading or his equipment, even go curling on the ponds with other farmers, but Ian seemed forever to be at his desk answering the letter
s from London and Surrey.

  Bella had insisted on paying for a launch party at an exclusive London hotel and she wanted Ian and Mairi to take rooms in the hotel while she stayed with the Grey-Watsons at their London home.

  ‘And I want you to get some new clothes, Mairi,’ said Ian. ‘The money from the book is earmarked for a ring for Bella but I want you to take this to buy yourself something nice. You haven’t had anything since before the war.’

  Mairi looked at the heavy purse he had given her and remembered the thrill she had had all those years ago when Colin had given her money to buy a dress. ‘I don’t need this, Ian. I’m not coming with you.’ He made to interrupt and she put her hands up as if physically to stop him. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to come but Bella will be there . . .’

  ‘Of course she’ll be there but you have to be there too. You must share it with me, Mairi.’

  ‘I can share just as well up here. Och, Ian, take the money and get yourself a suit made. I want all those smart people in London to see that you’re every bit as good as the Grey-Watsons.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with fancy clothes.’

  ‘Damn it, Ian. Are you still so naive? Of course to decent people the cost of your clothes doesn’t matter . . .’

  ‘Decent people, like you and Bella, are the only people who matter to me, Mairi. I know Bella pays more for her clothes than we could ever imagine but she’s sensitive.’ He saw from the look on his sister’s face that he had said the wrong thing. Damn it, but women were difficult.

  ‘You have discussed me with Bella?’ She was furious.

  ‘Yes. No. Of course. Not discuss, Mairi, but naturally we talk about you. You’re my family as the Grey-Watsons are Bella’s. We discuss all of you. Mairi, it would break my heart if you weren’t with me at the launch. And Bella’s too. She doesn’t want to come between us.’

  ‘That’s daft. She’s to be your wife. Of course she has come between us’ – she saw his face and changed what she had been about to say – ‘that’s only right, Ian. Bella must come first – always.’

  ‘You’re my wee sister, Mairi. We are the same blood. That’s a different tie from the one I want to have with Bella. Don’t hurt me by not sharing my big moment with me.’

  ‘Who will look after the farm?’

  ‘Mairi McGloughlin? You know fine well any one of our neighbours will help out willingly. We can ask Jack now that his wife has decided that he’s not still in love with you.’

  Jack had married just before the end of the war, a marriage of necessity it was rumoured, and their first baby had arrived rather precipitately after the wedding, but they seemed to be quite happy and Jack’s father-in-law, an Arbroath grocer, had been seen to smile, occasionally, at his son-in-law.

  ‘I don’t know that Jack ever was in love with me and I certainly was never in love with him.’

  She turned and smiled at her brother. ‘I’ll come to your launch, Ian, and I’ll stay at Bella’s nice hotel. How could I miss your big day?’

  He looked at her and he was perplexed. One moment she said one thing and immediately she said another. But she would come and his happiness would be all the sweeter because his wee sister was sharing with him.

  ‘And will you buy something nice?’

  She nodded and he should have remembered from their childhood that Mairi nodded when she did not mean what she was saying. She would buy new material but she would not waste their hard-earned money on store-bought clothes.

  As soon as she could she went off to see Milly. Jean opened the door of the schoolhouse and threw herself into Mairi’s arms. Oh, the sweetness and innocence of Jean who was not afraid or ashamed to show where she loved.

  ‘Your mum busy, Jean?’

  Jean rolled her eyes heavenwards as if for Divine guidance. ‘You know Mum, Mairi. She’s having a wonderful time finding things to do.’

  Milly had heard their voices and came bustling out of the kitchen, her face rosy from her ovens.

  ‘When did I ever have to look for something to do, you cheeky wee madam. Mairi, love, how good to see you. Come on in and tell me what you think.’

  ‘Mrs Morrison used to call me a pert wee madam. Cheeky must be the same thing.’

  Mairi looked around. Milly had been back to the farm several times since she had started working for the Dominie but this was the first time that Mairi had visited the Schoolhouse.

  ‘Goodness, what a transformation!’ There were new curtains, new cushions, a rag rug in front of the fire.

  Milly saw Mairi looking at it and beamed with pride. ‘Would you believe the Dominie and Angus made that? My Jim showed me how to do it and I showed Mr Morrison that time we had the snow too deep for the school to open. They’re making you one but you’re not supposed to know. If they find enough old rags, there’ll be everybody in the county with one of their rugs. Even Bert’s had a try but he hasnae the patience. Come on, lass, come on, come away and tell what’s up, or is this just a social call?’

  ‘You’re happy, Milly.’ Mairi sat down in the old chair with its new plump cushion. It was a statement, not a question. Milly was blooming.

  ‘Och, he’s the easiest man in the world to work for. That besom took real advantage of him and I’m sure she was skimming off the housekeeping because could we not live like kings on what he gives me for foodstuffs and the farmers that generous with what they have. Mr Morrison is tutoring Angus for a scholarship to the high school in Dundee and he says he’ll win it. Says he hasn’t had a brain like this to work with since Ian and Robin were bairns. Bert’s behaving; a stroke or two with the tawse has done him the world of good and Jean’s that happy between her wee friends at school and that dopey old horse, but come on, tell me all. Has Ian set the day? Is that it? Are there wedding bells about to peal?’

  ‘I don’t know about wedding bells but Ian has the date for the publication of his first book of poetry and they want more and even the novel he’s going to write. Would you believe some man in a big firm in London wants that from just talking to Ian and reading his poems?’

  Milly sat back and basked in the reflected glow from Ian’s success. ‘A published writer. Well, I hope he’ll never get so grand we can’t talk to him – but not our Ian. Even when he wins this noble prize that people talk about, he’ll just be Ian.’

  Mairi knew exactly what Ian would say about his chances of winning a Nobel prize, but she kept it to herself.

  ‘It’s about the day the book gets printed that I wanted to talk to you, Milly. It’s going to be in London and Ian wants me there. But that means staying in a posh hotel that Bella has picked out. Clothes, Milly. Nightwear, underwear. I can’t go into a splendid hotel in London wearing my own sewing. Ian has given me money for a new dress for the big day, a lot of money, but he doesn’t realise about things like stockings and gloves and petticoats . . .’

  ‘Trimmed with lace,’ put in Milly. ‘And hats and gloves. And here’s Miss Arabella with her silks and satins and you don’t want to let Ian down.’

  ‘I’m sure Bella won’t care what I wear. She only ever sees Ian when he’s in the room. It’s not Bella so much as . . .’

  ‘The maids,’ agreed Milly, nodding her head vigorously. ‘Now, how much time do we have?’

  ‘Oh, Milly, you’re a dear, but you’re so busy here. I didn’t realise you were doing so much.’

  ‘Because there is nothing else to do, with Angus and Mr Morrison with their heads in books all evening and Bert doing his homework and bringing in the coal the way I hear Robin did when he was a lad. We’ll go into Dundee on Saturday and we’ll buy material and then I’ll take you to meet Jim’s sister, Jeanette, that has a stall at the market and we’ll get trimmings from her and a decent dinner. Isn’t she grateful for everything you did for Jim’s bairns?’

  Mairi tried hard to suppress them but, in spite of her best efforts, the tears stared to fall. ‘Oh, Milly, I took you in for me, not for you.’

  ‘Ach,
at first, lassie, and of course it was to help out, but God alone knows what would have happened to us if you hadn’t needed me. If we were lucky it would have been ten in one room up a stair in Dundee, and my Angus would have been in some kind of trouble before he was fifteen. My boy’s got a life ahead of him, thanks to you, and a few evenings sewing pretty things instead of cushion covers will be a joy. Now stop greeting. God, you’re worse than Jean with your greet, greet, greet. But with her it’s always for a horse.’

  ‘I’ve never wept over a horse.’

  ‘Good. Now when’s the big day, because weather’ll make a difference.’

  ‘April.’

  ‘Is that not one of the nicest months of the year? We’ll probably be able to use a nice linen and do you know what, Mairi? We’ll make a silk nightgown and I’ll embroider roses on it. I haven’t done roses in a long time. It’ll be perfect white silk with wee pink roses, and when you get back from London, you can put it away for your honeymoon. For heaven’s sake, lassie, don’t start again. Hasn’t the Dominie had a letter all the way from Italy saying that Robin’s feeling better every single day?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ian’s book, Quietus, was published in April to impressive reviews and, whether because of its subject matter or his military history or possibly because of Bella – maybe even a combination of all three – he soon found himself courted and honoured. He thoroughly enjoyed himself – for about a week – and then told Bella he would have to head north. The farm and his pen were both waiting and the publishers were pressuring him to produce more work. But it was becoming harder and harder to leave Bella behind.

  ‘Talk to him, Mairi,’ begged Bella as they sat in the foyer of the elegant London hotel. ‘He won’t listen to me. Doesn’t he realise that every mother with an unmarried daughter will be throwing their offspring at his feet? I don’t want him to find someone prettier than me – or younger.’

  Ian laughed but Mairi did not. Bella had loved Ian for a long time. She deserved her prize.

  ‘Bella’s right,’ said Mairi as she looked down at her silk-stockinged ankles peeping out demurely from under her lilac silk skirts. Oh, Milly was a treasure beyond all treasures. During this week of exciting happenings more than one young man had made Miss McGloughlin realise that she was not a dried-up old maid. Fine feathers make fine birds, she told herself with a smile. ‘I must return to Windydykes’ – for one thing she had no more lovely new clothes in which to show herself off and had in fact worn this dress to dinner the night they had arrived – ‘but, Ian, you need not. Why don’t you marry now in London, by special licence or whatever.’