The Girl with the Creel Page 28

  Revived, she had gone on again in the morning, past Gardenstown and Crovie, until she came to the next steep road down to the sea, the road to Pennan. She didn’t know why she had decided to settle here – maybe because the first little cottages she saw appealed to her, perched as they were on the side of the cliff – but she was glad that she had. She wouldn’t have met Murdo otherwise, though the climb up from the village was an awful strain on her every day.

  She rented her room, no food provided, from the wife of one of Murdo’s friends. She told her landlady nothing of her circumstances, and kept herself to herself as much as she could. There was the occasional night when she thought of all the lonely nights stretching ahead of her, and she had to fight back the fear of growing too old to carry on, telling herself not to be morbid. She would weather the storm, she would find a haven she could call her own some day, when she could afford to buy a small house. The thing was, she couldn’t save a ha’penny from what she made, and there wasn’t much left of what she had started out with – she’d had to dip into it several times to pay the rent of her room.

  Letting out a long, dejected breath, she lifted the old box Murdo had given her to hold the guts and tipped them into the sea, at which the gulls stopped their circling and screeched as they dived in after them. She packed her creel now, shovelling some of Murdo’s salt over each layer as a preservative, and slung it over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re off again then, Liz?’ Murdo smiled.

  ‘Aye, once again.’ Having paid for her purchases, she started up the steep slope, looking longingly as she passed at the neat cottages standing in tiers on the hillside, but not stopping at any of them. She had no customers in Pennan, for the fishermen took fries of fish home to their own wives and to the widows of friends who had been lost. She had to go well into the hinterland beyond the turnpike.

  It took her nearly an hour to reach her first port of call, the farm of Easter Duncairn. She was always fascinated by the peculiar kink in the chimney here; it had a devil-may-care-look about it, a rakishness that she kind of liked, yet the farmhouse itself was solidly constructed and gave the impression that it would still be standing when the trump of doom sounded. There was a well-kept garden in front, with a gravel path running between the symmetrical rectangles of flower-bordered lawns and leading to the green front door. In her ignorance, it was this door she had gone to on her first day, but she had been told by a scraggy old woman in no uncertain terms to go round the back. At the time she had thought this unpleasant person was the farmer’s wife, and having somehow expected a stout jolly person, she’d been quite disappointed; but she had learned from the cottar wives that Meggie was just a housekeeper. Whatever she was, she was an absolute pain to deal with.

  As she usually did, Meggie spent ages making up her mind what to buy and then complaining that the fishwife was charging too much. Lizann wasn’t to be browbeaten, however, and they were still trying to come to an agreement when a man came round the corner, and the housekeeper’s manner changed like quicksilver. ‘I’m buying some fish for your supper, Mr Fordyce,’ she simpered ingratiatingly.

  ‘It sounded as if you were arguing about the price,’ he frowned, ‘and I’m sure this young lady wouldn’t cheat you.’ He smiled at Lizann.

  ‘No, sir,’ she said, smiling back shyly.

  ‘Give her what she asked, Meggie,’ he ordered, and waited until the coins were put in Lizann’s palm before he walked off.

  ‘He’s nae idea what things cost,’ Meggie complained. ‘His father wasna like that, though – I’d to account for every ha’penny to him. Of course, Dan’s just been back since old Duncan died, and he never wanted to be a farmer, ony road.’

  ‘What did he do before?’ Lizann enquired idly.

  Pleased to brag about her employer, Meggie said, proudly, ‘He went to the university in Aberdeen, and he got a job wi’ a soil research place somewhere round there. He was well up, near running it, when his father died, but Easter Duncairn had been in the family for generations and wi’ being the only son, he felt obliged to carry it on.’

  ‘You’ve got to admire him for that, then,’ Lizann murmured.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Meggie conceded, ‘he believes in doing his duty, and he’s a good man to work for, but he’s aye experimenting – different chemicals for different crops – and the men dinna like it.’

  ‘Some folk don’t like changes,’ Lizann agreed, ‘but if his ideas work, they’ll come round.’ Anxious to get on, she heaved up the creel. ‘I’ll see you again next week.’

  She went on now to the farm’s cottar houses, glad that the wives of the hired men didn’t haggle over the prices, but because she knew they had to watch what they spent, she sometimes took a copper off for them. At the second of the small group of houses she gratefully accepted a cup of tea from a white-haired woman who looked too old to be a fee’d man’s wife and she took to be a mother. Whatever she was, she was very kind and pressed the girl to taste one of her newly made pancakes.

  Leaving the fifth and last house, Lizann carried on along the road to the next farm, Mains of Duncairn. Here it was the farmer’s wife who came to the door, another woman who dithered about what she wanted but didn’t argue about the price. At one of the cottar houses there a young wife came out with an infant attached to her breast, at which a stab of pain pierced Lizann’s heart. It brought back the memory of her own baby, the baby that had never drawn breath, and she had trouble in keeping the smile on her face.

  ‘This little bugger’s teething,’ her customer said, delving into her purse to pay for a piece of ling. ‘Skirling from morn to night, and the only road I can stop him’s to keep him at my pap.’

  A little revolted by the last word, Lizann wondered how she would have coped with teething problems, and decided that she would have tried some other way to soothe her child … if he had lived. Dropping the coins she received into the old handbag she used as a moneybag, she said, ‘Thanks, and I hope his teeth’ve come through by the next time I see you.’

  The woman gave a screech of laughter. ‘God, I hope so, or I’ll ha’e nae paps left.’

  By the time Lizann had gone round Wester Duncairn, the next farmtoun, as she had heard the little communities called, the sun was high in the sky, and it was so hot that she looked for a shaded place to sit down for a little while. Finding a large oak tree, its branches spread wide, she laid down the creel – not so heavy now – where the sun wouldn’t get at it and took a paper bag out of her pocket. Inside were two slices of bread sandwiched together with a thin spreading of margarine. She wished that she had something to drink, but even if she could have afforded a bottle of lemonade, it would have been too much extra weight for her to carry, and she could get water from a burn farther on.

  Her repast over, she lay back on the grass and closed her eyes. It was very pleasant here, no sound except the buzzing of the bees as they made their way from buttercup to buttercup and the occasional clicking of a grasshopper. If only she could stay for ever … if only George was beside her, she would be in heaven. It was still too painful to think of him, so she turned her mind to something else. She was glad she had made it possible for Mick to marry Jenny, for her mother would have a daughter-in-law to look after her – Auntie Lou was too old to keep going to the Yardie every day for much longer. Jenny wouldn’t mind taking on the job; she was a good-hearted girl.

  Lizann gave a small sigh. At the time she’d been easily upset, touchy about the least little thing, and after what that horrible Elsie had said she had taken Jenny’s little outburst too much to heart. She had since realized that Jenny had likely said what she did without thinking, but the resentment must have been there. If Lizann had stayed in Buckie, Mick would have kept giving her money and it could have caused rows between him and Jenny.

  It suddenly occurred to Lizann that Mick had also been paying off the debt to the shipyard. Had that been what Jenny meant? Had she, in her foolish, nervy pride, jumped to the wrong conclusion? There could
only have been a few instalments left to pay – it would likely be settled by now – and what he had given her was just a fleabite. She took a moment or two to consider this. She, like Jenny, had acted on impulse, and it was too late to go back. She’d done the only thing possible by leaving, though there had been times, when she was feeling really low, that she regretted it.

  But if she didn’t keep away, Peter’s wife would spread her lies about and he could lose his job. It put new heart into Lizann to think she was repaying his kindness to her at the time of her bereavement, even though he would never know, and if her new life was far from ideal, things were bound to improve. She was still in her twenties, after all.

  Feeling more optimistic now, she went over her day so far. Her sales had been good, and she shouldn’t have any more trouble with Meggie at Easter Duncairn. She’d always dreaded going there, the old woman had been so difficult, but surely she would be more reasonable now. The farmer had seemed a nice man. She judged him to be around fifty, average height, fairly broad and not very good-looking. Not that he was ugly … his eyes were a kindly grey and his brown hair had a cute wave at the front. At first glance she had thought he was very serious, grim even, and then he’d given her that attractive smile and she knew that he had a lighter side to him. She had, however, got the impression that nothing would change his mind once it was made up and hoped that his new ideas would soon meet with his men’s approval. But she couldn’t sit here all day thinking about a man she would never see again, didn’t particularly want to see again. The air was cooling, and she still had fish to sell.

  Dan Fordyce sat down in the parlour for his usual after-dinner smoke. Meggie was rattling around in the kitchen, so she wouldn’t bother him for a while. Lighting his pipe, he leaned back in the old leather chair to think. He hadn’t been able to get that young lassie out of his mind since he saw her. Her faded blouse, darned in several places, had been sticking to her back, and her skirt had been crumpled. Her black curly hair had been a bit untidy, the tendrils round her face damp with sweat, but it was her eyes that haunted him. A dark, dark brown with jet black centres, and fringed with the thickest, longest lashes he had ever seen, they had held a deep sorrow which a girl her age should not have known. She had come through some terrible trouble, something she had not got over yet, and she had looked so vulnerable that he’d wanted to usher her inside to take care of her.

  Never in all his adult years having given any girl a second glance, he could not understand why she’d had such an effect on him. If he had been younger … but he would be forty-three next month, and she must only be … about seventeen? To her he would be an old man … and so he was. Old and stuck in a rut. Granted, the rut was not of his making, but he was deeply entrenched in it now.

  In the kitchen, Meggie Thow was also thinking. She had seen Mr Fordyce’s eyes lingering on the young fishwife, though the lassie herself hadn’t noticed, which was a blessing, for it might have put ideas in her head. Dan would be a catch for any woman, and he could have his pick of dozens of farmers’ daughters, so his housekeeper wasn’t going to stand by and let him make a fool of himself over a creature young enough to be his daughter. That was often the way with men in their forties – a flutter of some young thing’s eyelashes and they fell like a stone.

  Thumping a shining copper pan on to a shelf, it dawned on Meggie that it wouldn’t matter who Dan took for a wife, she would still be out of a job. She had been employed here as housemaid to his mother before he was even born, and had been taken on as housekeeper when Mrs Fordyce passed away, eighteen years ago. She would soon be sixty, but she would defy anybody to better her at cooking and baking, though a new mistress would want somebody a lot younger. It would be the finish of her, for nobody would want to employ a woman of her age.

  Well, Meggie thought, grimly, she could do nothing if he took a fancy to some suitable maiden lady, but he wouldn’t set eyes on that fishwife again if she could help it. She could hardly tell the creature to stop coming, the master liked a bit of fish, but she would buy whatever was at the top of the creel, pay what was asked and send her on her way. He would soon forget her, for he wasn’t a ladies’ man, thank goodness.

  Never having given much thought to how the changing seasons affected those who worked on the land, Lizann was amazed to find that the workers from one place helped the neighbouring farms to bring in the harvest in August. In addition to the big brosy men whose muscles rippled under leathered skin as they bound the sheaves and stooked them to wait for the cart to take them to the mill, or to be built into huge ricks for drying out, several young maids were running about keeping them supplied with things to eat and drink. Even grumpy Meggie could be seen carrying out steaming kettles of tea.

  The men, always out for a laugh, young and old, shouted to Lizann as she went past – ‘Hey, lass, come and gi’es a kiss’ or ‘My God, where have you been a’ my life?’ – and sometimes she was surprised by a young buck who had crept up behind her to pinch her bottom. The first time it happened she hadn’t known what to do, but she had soon realized it was just part of their fun and could now laugh along with them.

  She sometimes wished she could be part of this happy throng, and considered asking one of the farmers if he wanted another girl to help, but the fear of being turned down in public held her back. When things seemed to be wearing to an end, one of the men, a young strapling a few years younger than herself, caught her round the waist. ‘Would you like to come to the meal and ale the morn’s night wi’ me?’

  She was tempted to accept until it crossed her mind that he was likely teasing, so she shoved him away with a laugh and went on her way.

  Just after eleven on the third day of September, her landlady called upstairs to her. ‘That’s Chamberlain saying on the wireless we’re at war wi’ Germany.’

  Although Lizann waited for an invitation to go down and discuss this upsetting news over a cup of tea, nothing came, and she sat down sadly to think about it herself. She had no idea what happened in a war – she had never known any men who had fought in the last one; surely all the fighting would be in Europe? But she had heard the men down at the harbour saying Hitler would like to conquer Britain, and she wished now that she’d listened to Mick and George when they were speaking about it. But surely the Germans wouldn’t reach Scotland? And even if they did, they wouldn’t attack the fishing boats from the Moray Firth, so Mick wouldn’t be in any danger. And Peter was a draughtsman, so he’d be all right as well. And they wouldn’t be called up, not when they had such important jobs.

  * * *

  Jenny Jappy had also been listening to Neville Chamberlain’s speech, and her face was ashen by the time it ended. She had never believed Mick’s gloomy predictions, but it seemed he’d been right, and now he’d be at Hitler’s mercy. She glanced at Hannah, to see if she had taken in what the Prime Minister had said, but her head was buried in the Sunday Post Jake Berry had taken in. She was so upset by the news herself, however, that she rose in a moment to brew some tea to revive her. There had been so many men killed in the last war. The local names were on the memorial in Cluny Square, and when this war was over there would be a lot more … but please God, not Mick Jappy’s. Not Mick Jappy’s!

  After dinner, Jenny wished she had someone to talk to, and so, telling Hannah she was going to see Elsie for a wee while, she hurried along to Main Street. Being six months pregnant, she was quite breathless when she reached the Taits’ house, and Elsie, in the middle of washing up her dishes, was glad of an excuse to stop. ‘What’s up, Jenny?’ she asked, giving her hands a perfunctory wipe on a grubby towel.

  Hardly able to credit that she hadn’t heard, Jenny said, ‘Were you not listening to Chamberlain this morning? Britain’s at war with Germany.’

  ‘Oh well, everybody said it was coming.’

  ‘Are you not worried for Peter?’

  ‘Worried. What about?’

  ‘Oh, Elsie. Him and Mick are in the Navy, they’ll be sent to wherever they�
�re needed … to fight the Jerries.’

  A frown crossed the other woman’s face, natural as nature intended for once. ‘D’you think they might … be killed?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Oh, Jenny, and I was really nasty to Peter when he was home.’

  Elsie looked so distraught that Jenny regretted alarming her. ‘They’ll likely be safe enough.’

  ‘Oh, I hope so. You see, I was angry at him for joining the Navy and leaving me wi’ two boys.’ She stopped and eyed Jenny’s rounded stomach. ‘And you’ll be left wi’ an infant. When’s it due again?’

  ‘Round about Christmas, and Mick thought he should be home in time for the birth. I just hope he doesn’t have to act midwife for me like he did for Lizann.’

  ‘Oh aye, Peter tell’t me about that.’ Recalling how Peter had come by the information, Elsie’s heart hardened against him. If he hadn’t been taken in by that pasty-faced widow, he would still have been a proper husband to her, and she wouldn’t have needed Lenny.

  Sensing a change in her friend, Jenny said she’d have to get back to Hannah. ‘Thank goodness she hasn’t the wit to know about the war.’

  Having had several soakings over the past two weeks, Lizann was growing worried about the winter. It was only October, but already the ground was white with frost in the early mornings, though it soon cleared. The soles of her shoes were so thin now that every tiny stone she stood on felt like a boulder, and worse still, they didn’t keep out the wet. She had resorted to packing them with wads of any old newspapers she found, because she couldn’t afford to buy a new pair, nor a coat, nor a thicker cardigan. Her hands were raw and hacked, and her legs were a blotchy red with the chilblains caused by brine running out of her creel.

  It was clear but cold when she set off up the hill one morning, and she was surprised when a woman from one of the cottages called out: ‘I hope you dinna mind, but I see you going past every day, and … I was going to throw out this old coat o’ my man’s, but I thought maybe you’d be glad o’ it.’ Looking anxiously apologetic, she held out a shapeless black garment with a green tinge to it that spoke of having been stored in a damp cupboard for many a long year.