The Back of Beyond Page 20

  ‘Dunt aff?’ Marge looked more bewildered than ever.

  ‘Eh …’ The man searched for words she would understand. ‘Knock off, before you put them in your pail. I’ll show you.’ Opening the gate he was leaning on, he walked up the path and round the corner of the house, to return in a few moments carrying the implement he was recommending, clearly having known which of the three outhouses held the garden tools. ‘Watch, noo!’ he ordered, sticking the fork into the ground behind and under the withered leaves of one of the plants, giving it two hefty thumps with the sole of his right boot, then levering it up again.

  ‘This is the wey, look. Shoogle it aboot a bit, then gi’e’t a dunt against your knee.’ The bang on his knee dislodged most of the soil clinging to the potatoes, and as he transferred the vegetables to the pail, he said, triumphantly, ‘D’ye see? It’s nae near so hard work.’ He handed the fork to Marge. ‘You tak’ the next shaw, noo.’

  Her effort didn’t produce as many potatoes as Sandy’s, but she was quite pleased with what went into the pail. ‘It’s easy when you know how,’ she exulted.

  ‘Aye,’ he grinned, ‘I tell’t you.’ First giving his grimy hands a wipe down his trousers, he removed his cheesecutter and ran his fingers through his thinning mousy hair. Then he took the palm of his hand across his damp brow before putting the hat back on. ‘I’d best be goin’, though, or folk’ll think there’s nae post the day.’

  Marge wondered how to show her gratitude. She had the distinct feeling that he’d be offended if she offered him money, and settled for asking if he would like a cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Finnie, but I’m late as it is. Anither time, mebbe.’

  ‘Right, well, thank you very much, Mr Mearns.’

  ‘Sandy, for ony sake, an’ it was nae bother. Cheeribye, noo, and I’m sure you’ll get your man’s letter the morn.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Gwen, some minutes after the man had cycled off.

  ‘Sandy was showing me the proper way to lift the spuds. Watch.’

  Gwen was astonished at the way her sister unearthed another lot of potatoes, but only said, ‘Sandy? For goodness’ sake, Marge! You didn’t ask his name, did you?’

  ‘No, he told me.’

  ‘You should have asked if he knew anybody who’d give us an hour or two’s help now and again. That would have been more to the point.’

  ‘I clean forgot, Gwen, I was so interested in what he was doing. But we can ask him tomorrow, or next time he comes. What’s Alistair saying?’

  ‘He says they’ve been kept at it, marching, drill, all sorts of things, but … the good news is, he has a few days leave after this initial training’s finished, before he’s posted. He’ll be here next Friday.’

  ‘I hope I get a letter from Dougal tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be great if they could be here together?’

  Alistair was amazed at how well the large garden was looking, almost as good as when his father had tended it, and deeply impressed by the potato pit installed by Barry Mearns – Sandy’s thirteen-year-old son – but, on only his second day home, he said, ‘If you don’t mind, Gwen, I’ll take Alice’s bike and have a wee scoot round to see some of my old pals.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she assured him. She couldn’t get over how handsome he looked in uniform, and David had been ecstatic at having a Dad in the services.

  ‘He might go to that Lexie person,’ Marge remarked when Alistair had gone.

  Gwen smiled happily. ‘I hope he does. It’ll be nice for him to see her again.’

  After discovering that all his school friends had been called up or had gone into the forces voluntarily like himself, Alistair wished that he had spent his precious time with his wife. As he passed the shop on his way home, however, it crossed his mind that at least he could have a few words with Lexie. They’d been quite close at one time – too close for his own comfort on the day of his mother’s funeral – and she couldn’t still be angry at him for going to London.

  Her face lit up with pleasure when he walked into the shop. ‘Alistair! I didn’t know you’d come home.’

  So long used to Gwen’s soft tones, he felt a brief stab of irritation at Lexie’s rough country voice. She hadn’t changed much physically, either – waist still as small, bust still as rounded. She wasn’t so refined-looking as his wife, but prettier than he remembered. ‘You’re looking well,’ he smiled, trying to rid his mind of what he had almost done the last time he was with her.

  ‘You, and all.’ She glanced at the large clock on the wall. ‘It still wants five minutes to dinner time, but ach … nobody’ll be in now, so I may as well shut.’ She came round the counter, brushing past him as she went to lock the door. ‘Come through to the house so we can speak without being interrupted.’

  He followed her through. He wanted to hear all the gossip of the village and Lexie didn’t disappoint him. She told him that Gerry Lovie had run away with Dod Prosser’s wife about five years ago, ‘Then Dod upped and off himself, God knows where to.’

  ‘I was hoping to see Gerry Lovie,’ Alistair said, sadly, ‘and I did think it was funny his mother saying she didn’t know where he was, but that explains it.’

  ‘And remember Bunty Simmers? Well, her father threw her out for not telling him who put her in the family way. Jake Simmers was aye a narrow-minded, cantankerous brute, but his wife hasn’t spoken to him since, and nobody’s ever heard tell of Bunty.’

  She went over as much as she could recall of the events that had enlivened the small community over the years; humorous, like the time Willie Kemp had been so drunk he’d fallen off his bike on his way home from the pub and landed in a bed of nettles; sad, like when Maggie Durward, Johnny Greig’s wife, died in childbirth at the age of twenty-four; tragic, as when Freddy Findlay’s four-year-old daughter fell in the mill race and drowned before anybody could get her out.

  Alistair listened avidly, dredging his memory to put faces to the names, seeing the people concerned as they were when he had known them. Time flew past, but neither of them noticed until a loud rattling of the shop door handle shocked them out of the past.

  ‘Oh God!’ Alistair exclaimed, looking at his watch and jumping to his feet. ‘I’ve been here over an hour and a half. Gwen’ll be wondering where I am.’

  Lexie got off her seat reluctantly. ‘I should have opened half an hour ago, but that’s the first person that’s needed in. So … what the hell?’

  He waited for her to go into the shop area first, and as she passed him, she said, ‘If you don’t want to be seen, you can wait there till whoever it is has gone away.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter. I left Alice’s bike outside.’

  Following her through, he waited until she unlocked the shop door and walked past the astonished customer with a smiling, ‘Aye, aye, Gladdy.’

  Jumping on the bicycle, he hoped that he hadn’t laid the grounds for talk, it would be embarrassing for Lexie, but she could fend for herself, and they hadn’t done anything wrong, anyway. His conscience was quite clear.

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’ Gwen greeted him, when he entered the house. ‘We’ve had our dinner and yours is in the oven, but it’ll be all dried out by this time.’

  ‘I don’t mind, I can eat anything after the muck we got in the mess. I’m sorry I’m late, though. I was all over the place trying to get hold of some of my old mates, but they’re all away, so I went to the shop as a last resort, and … well, Lexie was giving me all the gossip, what’s been happening since I left.’

  ‘I could do with a friend,’ Gwen sighed. ‘I feel isolated, so far from the village.’

  Marge nodded her agreement to this. ‘Why don’t we go home, Gwennie? Back to Mum and Peg … we could be there for the wedding.’

  ‘No!’ Alistair said, firmly. ‘You can go back if you want, but my wife and kids are staying right here. God Almighty, have you forgotten what it’s like in London?’

  The children took possession of their father w
hen they came home, and both Gwen and Marge were glad when he offered to take them out of the way for a while. He took the short cut through the wood to the tower, joining the path from the main road about three quarters of the way up the hill, and while they walked, he exaggerated some of his experiences in the Artillery for the benefit of his son, who hung on to every word. Leila was content to listen, though she kept a firm grasp of her father’s hand.

  When they reached the top, he made them look around them while he explained the various landmarks and named the mountains in the distance, Ben this and Ben that. ‘So that’s why the house is called Benview,’ David exclaimed, delighted at having made the connection. Then the two youngsters ran to have a closer inspection of the old ruin, and Alistair sat down, his mind turning to another time he’d been there – the night before he sailed to London, the night he had finished with Lexie. It struck him now how brutal he’d been, snapping their relationship as if it was nothing stronger than a matchstick. She’d been much more vulnerable at the time than a normal sixteen-year-old because of her father deserting her, and there was no doubt that he’d wounded her badly, for she had never taken a husband. Poor Lexie. She wasn’t so pushy now, and he’d honestly enjoyed their talk. She had brought his youth back to him so vividly …

  ‘Dad! What d’you call this?’ David was holding a fluttering insect between his fingers. ‘I say it’s a daddy-longlegs and Leila says her teacher says they’re called crane flies, or something like that.’

  Alistair couldn’t help laughing at the boy’s earnestness. ‘Well, son, we called that a daddy-longlegs when I was a boy, too, but maybe crane fly’s its real name.’

  ‘Miss Rettie says it is,’ Leila said quietly, ‘and she’s always right.’

  ‘OK, then, crane fly it must be,’ her father chuckled.

  ‘But me and Dad’s still going to call them daddy-longlegses,’ David insisted.

  ‘Let it go now, son. We’d better get back before Mum and Auntie Marge send out a search party for us. I’ll be in the bad books if I’m late again.’

  ‘Who keeps the bad books?’ David wanted know.

  After making love to his wife for the first time in months, Dougal was in a state of happy contentment, smoking a cigarette to let a decent time pass before reaching for her again, when she upset his euphoria by whispering, ‘I’m thinking of going home, Dougal.’

  Irritated that her mind was on other things, he blew a smoke ring at the ceiling before snapping, ‘Home? Back to Lee Green? Don’t be daft, woman! They’re still being bombed. Not every night, maybe, but too damned often. What brought this on? Have you and Gwen had a row?’

  ‘Of course not! I’m bored out of my mind here, that’s what. Nobody to speak to, no cinemas, no dance halls, nothing to do at nights except listen to the wireless …’

  ‘At least you don’t get any air raids,’ Dougal growled. ‘You’re not going back, Marge, and that’s final. I’d be out of my mind worrying about you.’

  ‘Would you? Honestly? Oh, Dougal, so you still love me?’

  ‘I’ll never stop loving you, my darling.’ His face showed his surprise that she had ever doubted it. ‘You mean everything to me, always will, you should know that.’

  ‘I know I’ve been silly, but I don’t think I’d actually have left Gwen here on her own with the kids. It was just … oh, Dougal, I miss you so much, and I’ll never stop loving you, either.’

  Dougal ground out the stub in the ashtray. ‘Thank God for that! When I was away from you, I did sometimes wonder.’

  She felt like teasing him a little. ‘There are some troops stationed not far away, apparently, but I’ve only ever seen one or two of them in the village when I’m shopping.’ She kissed away his frown, and lay back again, adding, ‘I’m not interested in anybody else, darling, and never will be. Don’t ever forget that!’

  ‘I’ll try, Marge. I know you’d never cheat on me. It’s just being so far away …’

  ‘I wish you could have been here to see Alistair. Fancy missing him by one week.’

  ‘Aye, I’d have liked to see him. But that’s war! Come here, wench!’

  She turned towards him eagerly. Ever since she had got his letter saying that he’d be home on Saturday, she, too, had been happily anticipating their first night together.

  On Sunday, it was David who suggested that they all take a walk to the tower. ‘Dad took me and Leila up there when we came home from school one day, remember, Mum?’

  Gwen nodded, but made sure that she kept the children in front with her, to leave Marge with her husband.

  It was a sunny day, warm for the end of October if rather windy, and David darted hither and thither looking for wild flowers or interesting insects, while eight-year-old Leila walked sedately by her mother’s side, chattering about things that had happened at school.

  Ambling some distance behind them, Marge broke a silence by saying, ‘Is something bothering you, Dougal? You’ve hardly said a word since we came out.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said, slowly, quietly. ‘It’s watching young David, I suppose, but I can’t help wishing … oh, Marge, I wish we could have made a son … or a daughter.’

  Her heart swelled with a painful love. ‘I know how you feel,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve felt exactly the same ever since Leila was born, and it’s been worse since we came to Forvit and I see the two of them every day.’

  Dougal brightened as something occurred to him. ‘Maybe being in Forvit’s the answer. A change of location could do the trick. Maybe I hit the bullseye last night? What d’you think?’

  She blushed. ‘Possibly, my dearest. You tried hard enough.’

  Their laughter made Gwen turn round. ‘Aren’t you two going to share the joke?’

  ‘Maybe … in a couple of months,’ Marge grinned.

  Chapter 15

  Even after months of longing to be with his wife, Dougal, like Alistair, was drawn to seeking out his old pals to talk over old times, and, like Alistair, found that they were all in the forces or had moved away from Forvit altogether. Unlike Alistair, however, he had made his search in the evening, and he was taken into most of the houses he called at to have a ‘news’ with his school friend’s father.

  Along with the chat, of course, he was offered a dram for good luck, or, from those who had long since run out of whisky and been unable to restock, a glass of port or even home-made rhubarb wine. He should have known the effect this mixing of drinks would have, but it wasn’t until he came out into the fresh air after his sixth call, Sandy Mearns’s house, that it hit him. His legs and feet had wills of their own, each going in a different direction, his eyes couldn’t focus properly and somebody had set up a smiddy inside his head – the hammer hitting the anvil, clang, clang, clang, and no sign of it stopping. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been a regular beat, and it was driving him out of his mind as he wove his way along the centre of the road.

  Out of a conglomeration of confused thoughts, one kept coming to the surface – Marge would go absolutely mad if she saw him like this. In an effort to clear his head, he sat down on the cobbled pavement, wondering, as he did so, if he would be able to get up again, but telling himself he could worry about that when the time came. He had been sitting, back against a wall, for some time when the church clock began to strike, and even in his inebriated state, he knew he’d have to count the strokes.

  Nine! That wasn’t so late … unless he’d missed one. But he couldn’t go home until he’d sobered up a bit, and sitting here wouldn’t help. He’d have to try to stand up. The hotel bar closed at half past and he didn’t want every man in the place laughing at him.

  Stretching his arm out behind him, he tried to brace himself against the wall, but it was hopeless, so he slid his hand along until he found something for his fingers to grip. After several attempts, he found himself leaning on a long window-sill with his nose against the glass … looking into the shop. Lexie Fraser! She’d give him something to clear his head! Why
hadn’t he thought of her before?

  Having wit enough to know the shop would be shut, he managed to get himself round to the house without serious mishap – his knuckles got skinned against the wall, but that was nothing. Pulling himself as erect as he could, he gave three loud raps on the door.

  It was opened within seconds, and Lexie snapped, ‘Dougal Finnie! What brings you knocking at my door at this time of night? The shop’s closed and I’m not opening …’

  ‘I wanted a wee word with you, Lexie … in private.’

  ‘And what’s so private you couldn’t say it in the shop tomorrow?’

  Although irritated by her sarcasm, he said, humbly, ‘Can I come in … pleazhe?’

  ‘I never thought I’d hear you pleading to get into my house.’

  ‘Shtop your daft nonshenshe!’ he slurred, pushing past her.

  She closed the door with exaggerated care, then followed him inside, and stood in the middle of the kitchen floor with arms folded across her bosom. ‘What a state you’re in! Has your wife thrown you out?’

  He looked ashamed now. ‘She will, if I go home like this.’

  ‘Oh, you want something to sober you up, is that it?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Lexie.’

  Her voice softened at his hangdog expression. ‘Right then. A strong cup of tea with no sugar or milk, that should do the trick. If it doesn’t, we’ll try a few more.’

  He was on the third cup of revolting tarry liquid before he felt his head clearing, but his stomach had started to revolt.

  ‘If you want to be sick,’ Lexie said, seeing his face change colour, ‘the lavatory’s through there.’

  Having got rid of everything he had eaten and drunk that day, he washed his face and hands, shuddering at the sight of himself in the mirror, and wondering what his hostess would say to him now. She’d laugh her head off, more than likely, because he’d never been very friendly towards her when they were young.

  Lexie didn’t laugh, however. She eyed him with some concern. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong, Dougal, to make you get as drunk as that?’