The Shadow of the Sycamores Page 21

  Both Raes saw him out, Henry shaking his hand and wishing him all the best and Fay, with a demon egging her on, kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Congratulations, Max,’ she murmured, ‘and tell Nora from me she’s a very lucky girl.’

  She closed the door softly and turned to her husband. ‘You weren’t jealous, were you, Henry?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  But he was jealous. Why would Fay kiss Max like that if there had been nothing between them? With her own husband standing watching? Had she not been able to help herself, was that it? Had they been seeing each other in secret after she was married? Even in the short time she was living at The Sycamores?

  Taking his cap off the hook on the back of the door, he slapped it on his head and turned to go out. He then flung his arms round his wife and kissed her in a way he hadn’t done for months. ‘I love you, my Fairy, don’t ever forget that.’

  Going back to her children, Fay became occupied in cleaning the mess her little son had made by trying to pour his soup into the bowl Max had used. Then she had to wash the tablecloth before she changed and fed little Samara. Only after putting them both down for their afternoon nap did she have time to think. She had kissed Max at the door on the spur of the moment. It hadn’t crossed her mind that it could make Henry jealous but maybe it had been a good thing. For a long time now, he had not been nearly as loving as he been in the first years of their marriage. Any time she suggested having another child, he made the excuse that bringing up two was a hard enough struggle, without making it three.

  There was no disputing that his last kiss had been the kiss of a lover, though – a man reawakened. But would that feeling last? Would it dwindle away to nothing by the time he finished work? She would have to wait until bedtime to find out – worse luck.

  ‘Will I have to go to court if Innes is sent to trial?’ Janet looked imploringly at Nessie. ‘I couldn’t face up to it if he’s standing there looking at me.’

  ‘If he is tried, I’d think you’d definitely have to give evidence but I’ve the feeling it will never come to that. According to all reports, he was raving mad when they took him away – that’s why he was sent to that criminal asylum. The papers say he’ll be judged insane, unfit to plead, and he’ll be locked up there for life. In a straitjacket, I hope.’

  ‘And there would never be any chance of him escaping?’

  ‘Not a chance in a million.’

  Janet’s fear of having to testify against Ledingham was ended less than a week later, when it was announced that he had been certified and would remain in Carstairs, an asylum for the criminally insane, for the rest of his days.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ was Nessie’s first comment, then she giggled, ‘Innes Wellington Ledingham? Was that what made him think he could do what he liked, gave him ideas of grandeur? God forgive him.’

  ‘God might be able to forgive him,’ Janet muttered, ‘but I never will.’

  The mood in Oak Cottage was anything but cheery until Fay came to visit in the afternoon with her little son and daughter, a trio who always lifted the hearts of the two older ladies.

  ‘I had a letter from Nora this morning,’ the young mother smiled. ‘She and Max were married last Saturday in the chapel. She seems really happy and I’m so pleased for them.’

  Janet nodded. ‘She’ll make him a good wife. He was a bit of a lad among the girls for a while, you know, so I hope he’s settled down now.’

  ‘I’m sure he has.’ Fay hoped that the faint pinprick of embarrassment she felt was not showing in her face. ‘He really thinks the world of Nora.’

  The conversation was interrupted by little Andrew who, although a handful, was a most engaging child. ‘Story!’ he demanded, handing Janet the cloth book he had brought with him.

  While she was thus occupied, Nessie turned to Fay. ‘Have you seen the paper today?’ Fay’s nod needed no further explanation or discussion and they turned their attention to the baby, now cooing and gurgling in Nessie’s arms.

  The small item in the newspaper was the talk of the week for miles around. To those who had not known him, Innes Ledingham was a bad egg who deserved all he got. To those who had been his friends, his brain had been turned by an unscrupulous woman. To Roderick Emslie, he was a brother-in-law who had gone off the rails. And, to Joseph Leslie, he was the devil incarnate. ‘To think my daughter could have fallen into his clutches,’ he moaned. ‘I knew Henry Rae was not a suitable match for her.’

  ‘Henry had nothing to do with it,’ Catherine reminded him. ‘He only helped the woman after Max got her away from The Sycamores.’

  ‘He did not do very much for her. He passed her on to his father and his wife.’

  Catherine shook her head angrily. ‘Only because he knew his house would be the first place Ledingham would look. You know, Joseph, I do not know what gets into you, sometimes. You always think the worst of everybody. We could not have a better son-in-law than Henry. He worships our Fay and their two children.’

  ‘Humph.’

  She let it go at that. He could be so aggravating that she had, once or twice, wondered why she stayed with him.

  Fay was much happier now that the worry of Janet’s safety had been taken off Henry’s mind. He was more loving towards her but, even so, he still maintained that they could not afford to have another child. She could see his point – she had to watch every ha’penny – but she still longed for another little boy. Andrew was being spoiled – Henry always let him have his own way and so did Willie, Nessie and Janet. It wasn’t good for him – he took advantage of it. He was still an adorable wee nickum, though.

  Better not say anything to any of them, she reflected. She should just enjoy life, now that it was flowing on peacefully.

  Her mind free of fear, Janet had something else to occupy it. The advent of the combustion engine was affecting Willie’s trade and she could see that Nessie was hard pushed to feed the three of them and pay for coal for the fire and paraffin for the lamps, as well as all the other expenses. She, herself, had worried since she had been brought there that she made no contribution to the household, even though Willie and Nessie had both told her that she wasn’t fit to take a job and it didn’t cost much more to feed three than feed two.

  ‘Anyway, you hardly eat enough to keep a spurdie going,’ Nessie had added.

  Smiling at being compared to a sparrow when her bulk was always increasing, Janet had concentrated her thoughts on the problem but it was some time before she came up with a solution.

  She waited, however, until she had it all worked out before tackling Nessie one afternoon. ‘You’re aye saying I’m a great cook so what would you say to us starting a wee shop? A home bakery?’

  Somewhat taken aback, Nessie laid down the sock she was darning and gave the matter her full consideration. By the time Willie came in from his walk, the two women were eagerly discussing how it should be done and, although he was not exactly enamoured of their plan to change the parlour into a shop, their excitement started to rub off on him.

  It did not take long to put into practice. The sash window in the parlour only needed a shelf put up below it and a glass shelf, level with the window-sill, would double as protection for the goods and a counter. Then Nessie painstakingly made a placard on a firm piece of cardboard to let the public know of the venture and that ‘Oak Cottage Home Bakery’ would be opening on the following Monday, hours 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. daily, except Sundays.

  The two women occupied their hands furiously over the weekend. Janet baked as many scones and biscuits as the two ovens at the side of the kitchen range would hold and as many girdle scones and pancakes as the big cast-iron girdle could turn out. Meanwhile, Nessie washed and made ready all the plates, dishes and containers she could find and then washed and starched all her good linen doilies and table napkins to line them.

  It wasn’t until late on the Sunday evening that Willie spotted the big flaw in their arrangements. ‘Will you not need paper bags for the custome
rs to take away what they buy?’ he asked.

  Janet looked crestfallen but Nessie was not so easily knocked back. ‘I’ll just need to put it on our notice,’ she laughed and, in another five minutes, she had added the instruction, ‘Please bring your own bags meantime.’

  ‘Once we see if it’s going to be a success,’ she explained, ‘we can order bags from wherever the real shops get their bags from.’

  The enterprise paid off to such an extent that oatcakes and loaves of bread were soon added to the list and, before long, by popular request, pies and fruit tarts. Nessie discovered that she had a flair for making pastry so she, too, was kept fully occupied in the evenings.

  Willie pretended not to be interested in the fortune or misfortune of what was going on in his own front room but it quickly became obvious, even to him, that the home bakery was a galloping success. Even taking their expenses into account – the ingredients they needed, the paper bags, the tissue paper for the loaves, the folding cardboard boxes for the cakes, the extra rates they had to pay the council – the profits rose substantially each week.

  Better still, as far as he was concerned, his wife was too busy, and too tired, to find fault with every little thing he did, as she’d been wont to do before. He could spit into the fire if he wanted to clear his throat, sit in his chair with his boots off and let the heat dry his sweaty socks, scratch his crotch when it was itchy and fart when he felt the need. Not that he felt comfortable about doing things like that. He’d been brought up to have manners, to think of other people first, and he’d had to toe the line for so long that he soon reverted to what was second nature to him. He felt easier in himself when he was behaving like a normal human being.

  It was good having two women attending to his needs after the baking was done in the evenings. Nessie saw to the physical side, when she felt up to it, and Janet looked to his comforts, plumping up his cushion, handing him his pipe and tobacco tin or his glasses when he wanted to read the paper. Govey Dick! This was the life, right enough, and long may it continue.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  1897

  As usual, seven-year-old Andrew was late in coming home from school and Samara, hardly two years younger and now answering to Mara, would only say that she had seen him playing tag with some other boys. Fay could never depend on her son – he was so full of boyish mischief. She had heard from outsiders before now that he’d been seen here, there and everywhere – parts of the town where he should never have set foot. He never admitted to any wrongdoing, of course, but she couldn’t help being anxious. She had warned him to keep away from the Esslemont’s place, in case he fell in the mill race; she had told him not to go into Charlie Reid’s field where the bull was; she had forbidden him to go anywhere near the quarry, but there was always this doubt of him in her heart.

  Henry laughed at her for being overprotective but she was always ill at ease until Andrew came home – usually with his breeches torn and his knees scraped or a hole in his jacket. The thing was, as Henry should know, she didn’t have the money to replace the damaged articles of clothing. Or, rather, she did have the money – the fifty pounds her father had given them as a wedding gift was still lying in the bank but her husband wouldn’t let her touch it.

  ‘There might come a time when we really do need it,’ he would say and she had to do the best she could with a needle and thread, plus a bit cut from an old pair of his father’s trousers as a patch.

  When Henry arrived home for supper, Andrew had still not turned up and Fay was pale with worry. ‘Don’t fret, my dearest Fairy,’ he assured her, ‘He’ll just be playing with the rest of the lads.’

  ‘But it’s hours now,’ she wailed. ‘He’s never been as late as this before.’

  ‘Dish up my supper, then, and, when I’m finished, I’ll go and look for him.’

  She had to be content with that and hastened to the range to do as he had bidden. She would never forget what happened next, every little detail would be etched deep in her heart. The first thing was the rush of feet outside and, as she turned round with the potato pot in her hand, the door was flung open and her father-in-law carried in Andrew’s limp little body.

  The pot went one way, the tatties the other, as she dashed to look at her son, almost colliding with Henry doing the same. Several people had followed Willie in but Fay and Henry could see nothing except the blood dripping from their beloved little boy on to the floor.

  ‘I’ve sent one o’ the laddies’ fathers for the doctor,’ Willie murmured grimly. ‘I’ll lay him on the couch. He’s pretty bad.’

  The devastated parents did not need to be told that – they could see for themselves that the unconscious boy was having difficulty breathing. Fortunately, the man who had run for the doctor caught him on his way home and so he was there in five minutes – the longest five minutes the parents and grandfather had lived through.

  After clearing the room of spectators, Doctor Burr gave the patient a very brief examination then raised a grave face. ‘I’m afraid he’s too far gone for me to do anything,’ he murmured to Henry. ‘If he had been taken straight to a hospital, perhaps he could have stood a chance but …’ He left the sentence unfinished, turning away to adjust the towels Fay had already packed round her son’s extensive injuries.

  Henry put his arm round his wife now. The nearest hospital was almost twenty miles away and it was quite plain to both of them that, even if Andrew had been whisked away in a carriage as soon as it happened – whatever had happened – he would probably have died before he reached it.

  Another excruciatingly long ten minutes passed before the laboured, shallow breathing stopped and Burr took Fay’s hand. ‘It’s best this way, my dear. If he had lived, he would have needed round-the-clock nursing.’

  She wanted to shout, ‘I would willingly have given him that!’ but she knew it would have been impossible. She had Mara to think of, too. She was only five and still needed a lot of her mother’s attention.

  While Burr was writing out the death certificate, Willie said, ‘I’d better go and tell Pogie. He’ll attend to … things.’

  The two men went out together, leaving the devastated mother and father seeking comfort from each other.

  The story emerged gradually, of how young Andrew had been dared by some older boys to go into the field with the bull; of how other boys had pleaded with him not to go because it was too dangerous; how he had shaken his head and said he had to do it to prove he wasn’t a baby like Donal Coull had said. Once through the gate, he had been goaded into walking well away from the paling – so far away, indeed, that, when the bull turned and charged at him, his little legs were not capable of running fast enough for him to escape.

  Willie, intent on getting at the whole truth, threatened to punch the ten-year-old Donal if he didn’t tell him exactly what had happened but, when the words came pouring out of the terrified boy’s mouth, he wished that he had let it be. The graphic, bloody details – of the bull catching Andrew on its horns, tossing him into the air, only to gore him when he came down, and then trampling on him over and over again – were too much to bear. Letting go of the boy, the bereaved grandfather sat down at the side of the road with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth with the waves of nauseous sorrow that swept through him.

  For a full ten minutes, he remained there, until his grief receded a little and he was fit to stand up. He made his way home slowly, trying to put the horrifying story out of his mind, although he knew quite well that he would never forget. Strangely, he felt no anger at the boy Coull. Down through the centuries, boys had always been boys and would continue to be so until the end of time. As a boy himself, he had done things he should not have done, had played tricks which could have ended in tragedy but hadn’t. He had been lucky but Donal Coull had not. He was only ten, so what did he know of danger?

  Willie halted for a moment, wondering how much he should disclose to his family, and decided that he should keep the information to himself. It
would be cruel to put Fay, Henry, Nessie and Janet through the agony of picturing what had happened in that field. Donal Coull wouldn’t tell anybody else, he was almost sure of that, nor would any of the other boys who had been there and they wouldn’t get off scot-free. They would get their punishment from the guilt they would feel for the rest of their lives. More composed now, Willie continued on his way.

  On the morning after her nephew’s funeral, Abby Laing got a letter from her sister Kitty, who had not been in touch for some time. Pogie watched for a moment and then stood up. He had another two funerals to arrange. ‘What does Kitty say?’ he asked as he fastened up his black jacket.

  ‘She wants to come home.’ Abby looked up at him. ‘She doesn’t want to go to Father’s, though, and she doesn’t like to ask Fay so she wants to come here. What do you think?’

  ‘I have no objections, my dear, but it is up to you. She could be a help to you.’

  ‘We don’t have room. She wouldn’t want to sleep with Gail and we can’t put Gail in the same bed as Clarence. There’s just the couch and it’s too lumpy.’

  ‘I will leave you to think it over, then.’ Pogie put on his everyday hat, a dark grey homburg, and went out.

  While Abby supervised her thirteen-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter making ready for school, she pondered over Kitty’s request but, even after pegging a large washing out on the line, she was still undecided. They could buy another bed, she supposed, but it still meant her son and daughter being in the same room and, if Kitty meant to stay for good, that just wouldn’t work out. Even now, Clarence teased his sister by lifting her skirts so God knows what he would do when he was a year or two older.

  She had better go to show her sister-in-law the letter and ask what she should do. Fay was usually so calm about everything, though she hadn’t been so calm about Andrew – which wasn’t really surprising. She, herself, had been anything but calm when her third baby died and then her fourth, though losing them in infancy might not be as bad as if they’d been Andrew’s age.