The Road to Rowanbrae Page 3

  ‘Aye, you’re right, an’ there’s nae shame to it.’

  ‘Oh, no, I wasna meanin’ that. How far on are you?’

  ‘Just three month.’

  ‘Aye, a first nicht bairn or maybe the nicht afore?’

  Fortunately, Dougal Mennie stepped in. ‘What can I dae for you the day, Mistress Petrie?’

  Having learned all that she wanted, Jean turned to him, but Mysie could see Alice Thomson, Belle Duff and even Rosie Mennie assessing her figure, and suddenly found it very funny. ‘You surely heard me tellin’ Mrs Petrie I’m only three month,’ she giggled, ‘so you’ll nae see onything yet.’

  Dougal’s eyes met hers briefly over Jean Petrie’s head, and she could have sworn that he winked before he turned to fill a paper poke with salt for his most demanding customer.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I’m goin’ to Aberdeen on Friday,’ Jeems announced one bleak morning in November. ‘I’ve some tatties an’ neeps an’ carrots to sell, an’ I’ve to get binder twine an’ things like that. The miller’s goin’ in wi’ his horse an’ cart, so me an’ Rab Duff usually go wi’ him.’

  ‘When will you be hame?’ Mysie would have been quite happy if he intended staying away for a week, but it wasn’t likely.

  ‘Och, I dinna ken. We whiles ha’e a puckle drams when we’re there, so you can expect me when you see me.’

  ‘What aboot your supper? What time will I …?’

  ‘I’ll likely be that fu’ I’ll nae be needin’ supper.’ His face contorted into a toothy grimace. ‘Forbye, we sometimes tak’ something to eat in a restchuraunt. Dinna wait up for me, but I’ll be hame afore risin’ time on Saturday.’

  Mysie was astonished to hear him talking so blithely about getting drunk. She’d hadn’t realised that he was a drinking man, but she didn’t know very much about him, after all.

  It was almost two on Saturday morning when she was roused out of her slumbers by shouting and banging. Rising sleepily, she ran through to open the unlocked door, and her heart sank when she saw Andra White and Rab Duff supporting Jeems, who was roaring at the top of his voice. Smiling at Mysie rather stupidly, Rab said, ‘He’s fu’, lass. What’ll we dae wi’ him?’

  ‘You’d best tak’ him ben the hoose.’

  They dumped him unceremoniously on the bed, where he retched loudly then promptly vomited all over the pillows. ‘He’s been spewin’ since we left the toon,’ Andra informed her seriously, as he turned to go back to the kitchen. ‘God kens where it’s a’ comin’ fae.’

  ‘We’d been in a puckle bars, of course,’ Rab reminded him. ‘We started aff in yon ane aside the Kittybrewster Mart, then the Butcher’s Arms in George Street, then the Lemon Tree, an’ we finished up in the Prince o’ Wales. Was that a’, Andra?’

  ‘I canna mind nae mair, but it was in the Prince o’ Wales he got fightin’ mad, I mind that.’

  ‘Fightin’ mad?’ A look of disgust crossed Mysie’s face.

  ‘Ach weel,’ Rab sniggered, ‘a silly bugger o’ a toonser was makin’ a fool o’ him, and Jeems punched his guts, an’ me an’ Andra had to tak’ him oot afore they got the bobbies.’

  The miller grinned. ‘You maybe didna ken, Mysie, but your man’s got a helluva temper, an’ if I was you, I’d leave him to sleep it aff. He’ll nae mind naething when he’s sober.’

  Rab suddenly leered at her. ‘God, you’ve got braw tits.’

  Conscious of her nightdress straining against her swelling figure, Mysie folded her arms and smiled nervously. ‘Goodnicht to you, an’ thank you for takin’ Jeems hame.’

  Andra pulled at the other man’s sleeve. ‘Aye, come awa’, Rab. You’ve a wife o’ your ain at Wellbrae.’

  ‘Belle’s hardly nae tits at a’,’ Rab grumbled, as he followed the miller out. ‘She’s like a bloody stick. What pleasure is there in feelin’ that?’

  Closing the door behind them, Mysie burst out laughing, in relief that they were gone as much as at what Rab had said. Drunken fools, the three of them, she thought, and sat down to sleep in the chair for the rest of the night. There was no sense in taking any chances, though she doubted if Jeems could raise his head in his present state, never mind anything else.

  Her husband rose at his usual time, and appeared to be none the worse for his escapade. ‘We’d a grand time in the toon, Mysie,’ he said when he came into the kitchen, ‘but I canna mind on comin’ hame.’

  ‘I’m nae surprised,’ she snapped. ‘You was roarin’ drunk, an’ Andra an’ Rab wasna muckle better. It beats me how you could let yoursel’s get in such a state.’

  Looking slightly shame-faced, he said, ‘Ach weel, it’s nae very often.’

  ‘I hope you’ll nae mak’ a habit o’ spewin’ in the bed. I’ve that to wash yet.’

  The news had got round before Mysie went to the well, and Mrs Petrie was in her element. ‘I’d ha’e thought Jeems Duncan had mair sense than get shit mirack an’ thump somebody in a bar,’ she flung at Mysie, who decided that silence was the best policy. ‘If it had been my man, I’d ha’e been black affronted.’

  The murmurs of agreement made Mysie forget to keep quiet. ‘You never let your man aff the leash lang enough to get fu’.’ Turning to Mrs Duff, she added caustically, ‘An’ your man wasna very sober himsel’.’

  ‘Rab can haud his drink,’ Belle retorted, smugly. ‘I’m sure he would never punch another man in a bar.’

  Looking at Belle’s straight-up-and-down figure and recalling Rab’s remarks about her, Mysie said, ‘No, it’s weemen he’s mair interested in gettin’ his hands on.’

  There was a short pause before Belle said, in her very best dignified English, ‘And what do you mean by that? My Rab has never looked at another wumman since me an’ him was wed.’

  The humour of the situation striking her, Mysie laughed. ‘I didna mean naething. They were a’ drunk, but I must admit – Jeems was worst.’

  Somewhat mollified, Mrs Duff muttered, ‘Weel, then,’ as if to end the discussion, but Jean Petrie said, ‘Andra an’ Rab couldna ha’e been that bad. They got him awa’ afore the bobbies come.’

  Jess Findlater had a good laugh about it later. ‘Jeems has an awfu’ temper, so it’s just as weel you didna sleep wi’ him.’

  ‘He wouldna ha’e ken’t supposin’ the coo had been sleepin’ wi’ him,’ Mysie giggled. ‘It was the other twa I’d ha’e needed to watch if they’d bidden muckle langer.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Jess looked interested.

  ‘I was just in my goon an’ they couldna keep their een aff my breasts. I ken they’re growin’ as big as balloons an’ I was feared Rab Duff would put his muckle paws on them.’

  ‘He wouldna ken what breasts was, for Belle hasna got ony – an’ Pattie’s that fat her breasts an’ her belly’s a’ in ane.’

  They were almost helpless with mirth when Jeems walked in. ‘What are you twa laughin’ at?’ he demanded, truculently.

  ‘We wasna laughin’ at you,’ Mysie spluttered, ‘though I’m sure a’body else in Burnlea is.’ His puzzled frown made her go on, although she hadn’t meant to say anything to him in front of Jess. ‘Do you nae mind what you did last nicht? You punched a man for makin’ a fool o’ you, though that wasna ill to dae, for you’re the biggest fool on twa legs. You was lucky Andra an’ Rab got you oot o’ the bar afore the man got the bobbies.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ he moaned. ‘I dinna mind naething aboot that.’

  ‘Weel, I hope it’ll be a lesson to you,’ Mysie said. ‘Jean Petrie tell’t me I should be black affronted.’

  ‘It’s me should be black affronted.’

  ‘Aye, so should you.’

  James Duncan, junior, was born at twenty-five past six on a rainy morning in March 1906, three weeks premature. Jeems had gone for Jess at midnight, and the birth, although not easy, had been mercifully short.

  ‘A lump come in my throat at seein’ Jeems when he ken’t it was a loon,’ Jess told Mysie afterwards. ‘He was near jumpin’ his ain hei
ght, he was that prood. He’s nae the only ane to be feelin’ prood, though, for the laird’s wife gi’ed him a son on Monday, so Rosie Mennie tell’t me. It’s his first, as weel.’

  ‘Thank God I’d a loon,’ Mysie said, with deep feeling. ‘Jeems would ha’e went mad if it had been a lassie.’

  ‘I’m thinkin’ Jean Petrie’ll ha’e something to craw aboot noo, though,’ Jess observed. ‘The bairn’s early, so she’ll be sayin’ Jeems hadna waited till he put the ring on.’

  Mysie pulled a face. ‘I dinna care what she thinks. Jeems never had the chance to touch me afore the weddin’, an’ … I dinna ken aboot you, but I dinna like it ony road.’

  Jess shot her a pitying glance, but left soon afterwards, and Mysie felt a touch of envy. Jess thought the world of Jake although she pretended to criticise him, and hadn’t said she didn’t like what he did. How would it feel to love a man like that and have him love her? Would that make any difference? Would that make her welcome a man inside her? Or could it be that she was unnatural? She must be incapable of love, and it wouldn’t matter whom she had married.

  A letter arrived for Mysie in June. It was postmarked Turriff and was addressed in her mother’s laborious hand – Jean hadn’t had the benefit of much schooling – but she laid it on the table apprehensively. Why would her mother be writing after nearly a year? If this letter was pleading with her to visit, she wouldn’t bother answering it, for she could never go back to Drumloanings after what her father had done to her. But her mother surely wouldn’t waste a stamp writing to ask what she knew was impossible? After dithering for a minute or two, Mysie picked up the envelope and tore it open.

  It was short and to the point. ‘Dear Mysie, Your father was coming home from Turriff last night and fell down the old well at Tinterty. The burial is on Saturday. Your loving Mother.’

  Mysie read the few lines again, wondering what her father had been doing near the old well. Tinterty Farm wasn’t on his way home from Turriff, but he’d likely been so drunk he hadn’t known where he was going, and that didn’t surprise her. What was more, she didn’t care.

  By the time Jeems came in at breakfast time, Mysie had read the note three times, and handed it to him with a harsh laugh. ‘Eddie Lonie died as he lived, drunk as a lord, an’ I’ve nae sympathy for him, an’ I’m nae goin’ to the burial.’

  Shocked by her callousness, her husband said, ‘You’ll need to go, it would look bad if you didna.’

  ‘It would look worse if I did, for I would be laughin’ mysel’ sick when they covered him up.’

  ‘My God, Mysie, that’s an awfu’ thing to say – he was your father, when a’s said an’ daen.’

  ‘A father’s supposed to provide for his bairns, but my mother had to work her fingers to the bone for us, for he drunk what he made an’ hardly ever gi’ed her a penny, though she’d nine bairns by him. She’d to wash an’ iron for the big hooses to get enough to feed us.’

  Giving up, Jeems finished his porridge and went out without another word, but Jess Findlater gave Mysie the same advice when she called in. ‘You’ll ha’e to go to your father’s frunial. What would folk say if you wasna there?’

  ‘I dinna care what they say, I’m nae goin’.’

  ‘Mysie, for your mother’s sake …’

  ‘My mother’ll be as pleased as me that he’s awa’, if I ken onything aboot it.’

  Shaking her head, Jess let the subject drop. ‘How’s my wee Jamie the day?’

  ‘He was a bittie fractious through the nicht. Could it be his teeth already? He’s hardly fower month auld.’

  ‘Oh aye, he could be teethin’, poor little thing, an’ you’re nae lookin’ so good yoursel’.’

  ‘I was feelin’ sick when I rose this mornin’, but I’m a bit better noo. It’s likely the want o’ sleep.’

  ‘Has Jeems … eh … been at you again?’

  ‘Aye, it wasna lang after the bairn was born.’ Comprehending what Jess was hinting, Mysie burst out, ‘You dinna think I’m awa’ again, dae you?’

  ‘I wouldna be surprised. You said he was set on twa loons, so he’s nae wastin’ nae time.’

  ‘Oh, Jess, what’ll Jean Petrie say if I am?’

  ‘It’s naething to dae wi’ her, an’ she canna say this ane’s been conceived oot o’ wedlock.’

  Setting the table at dinnertime, Mysie decided not to tell Jeems until she was absolutely certain. Feeling sick one morning didn’t prove anything. She let her mind turn to her mother’s letter again, and a most unexpected surge of homesickness came over her – not for her father, who had got what he deserved, but for the couthy woman who had borne and raised her. Perhaps Jean Lonie wasn’t expecting her eldest daughter to attend the funeral, but she might be glad to see her.

  ‘I’ve been thinkin’,’ Mysie said, when Jeems came in. ‘I’m nae carin’ a docken aboot my father, for he didna care a docken for me, but I’d like to see my mother again. The only thing is, it’s a lang road on trains wi’ the bairn.’

  ‘Aye, you’d ha’e to go into Aberdeen an’ oot again.’ After thinking for a few moments, he said, ‘Maybe the miller would let me ha’e his horse an’ cart for a day again. That would save the fares, as weel. Aye, I’ll ask him.’

  Mysie didn’t want Jeems’s company, but on thinking it over, she admitted that going to Turriff would be easier by cart, and it would let her take some butter, eggs and cheese to give to her mother.

  The sky was heavily clouded on Saturday, the steady drizzle which began not long after they set out soon penetrating their clothes as the horse pulled the open cart across the windblown countryside where all the trees stood at the same peculiar angle. Mysie had taken an old oilskin coat and wrapped it round the sleeping baby. The twenty-two miles to Turriff took them over four hours, but when she ran into her mother’s arms, she was glad she had made the journey.

  After a few moments of emotional silence, Jean Lonie said, ‘You’re soakin’, come in an’ dry aff at the fire.’ She took the infant from Jeems, removing the oilskin as she led the way in, and when she was satisfied that her visitors were near enough the heat, she turned to her daughter again. ‘Oh, lassie, I’m right pleased to see you. I wasna expectin’ you, kennin’ what you thought o’ your father.’

  ‘It’s nae for his sake I’m here.’ Mysie glanced round the familiar room, drawing in her breath when she saw that the old cradle in the corner had an occupant. ‘Oh, Mother, you havena had another ane?’

  ‘Aye,’ Jean Lonie said, wryly. ‘Whatever else your father was, he was good at makin’ bairns.’

  The funeral was not until two o’clock, so after they’d had some broth, Jeems took the young Lonies with him when he went to see if there was anything in the smithy that would be of any use to him. Mysie sat down to feed her infant and fended off her mother’s questions as to how she liked married life by describing Rowanbrae in glowing terms and praising Jeems for being so industrious, but Jean had something else to find out.

  ‘I’m thinkin’ your man’s some like your father. Your face is pickit, though you’re nae showin’, so I might be wrang, but are you to be ha’ein’ another bairn yoursel’?’

  ‘Aye.’ Mysie had been sick the past two mornings, but was surprised that her mother could tell so soon. ‘Jeems’s nae like Father, though, for he says he just wants twa loons.’

  ‘That’s maybe a’ he’s wantin’, lass, but he’ll likely mak’ a lot mair if he’s onything like Eddie.’

  ‘But I’m nae goin’ to let him touch me after I’ve gi’en him the twa loons, so …’

  ‘He’ll maybe nae tak’ no for an answer.’ Jean shook her head sympathetically then changed the subject. ‘Mistress Gunn o’ Tinterty has asked me to tak’ on the cook’s job, an’ I’m to get the hoose her son had afore him an’ his wife went to Canada. It’s a lot bigger than this – three rooms forbyes the kitchen, an’ a inside w.c. It’s one good thing your father’s daen for me, ony road, for Mistress Gunn said she was sorry for me wi’ him
meetin’ his end like he did. If only she ken’t. It’s a blessed release I feel, after the purgatory he put me through. It’s a awfu’ thing to say, but I canna help it.’

  Mysie had known that her mother had no high opinion of her father, but she was taken aback by Jean’s forthright remarks. Fancy having to live with a man for … it must be seventeen or eighteen years, when she felt like that about him. But had it always been like that? ‘Did you never … love him?’ she asked, timidly.

  Jean didn’t answer for some time, having to delve deeply into her memory, then she gave a shuddering sigh. ‘Eddie was the maist handsomest man I’d ever met. He was tall and straight an’ his eyes looked into mine like they was turnin’ me inside oot. When we was coortin’, he tell’t me I was the bonniest lassie he’d ever saw, an’ there wasna a happier lassie than me the day he wed me …’ Her voice broke. ‘Oh, God, Mysie, I wonder what went wrang atween us? What was it made him tak’ to the drink? Was it my blame?’

  While her mother wept for a love which had foundered and sunk without trace, Mysie stood helplessly. Her father’s back had been bowed for as long as she could remember, his face blotchy, his eyes bleary, his hair lank, but a vague picture was surfacing in her mind of a tall, laughing man, with bright eyes and thick fair hair, tossing her up in the air when she was a very small girl. She had forgotten about it until now, but how could a man change like that?

  She would never be disillusioned about Jeems, that was one thing, for his looks couldn’t get much worse. She hadn’t liked him the first time she saw him and she didn’t like him any better now, but he provided for her and wanted no more than two sons, so her life would surely never be as bad as her mother’s. Instead of resenting her husband, she supposed she should be grateful for what he was. A little niggling voice inside her, however, told her that she had a right to be resentful. What of the dreams she had had, when she was younger, of a man who would sweep her off her feet, who would kiss her and make her love him as he would love her? And all she’d got was Jeems.

  She looked round when her husband returned, and couldn’t help hating his pudding face and big nose, and the way his thick dark eyebrows straddled across his forehead as if trying to reach each other. She hadn’t even the doubtful consolation that he loved her, for, as he’d told her himself, he had just picked her to be the mother of his bairns.