The Shadow of the Sycamores Read online

  The journey was lengthened by the various detours Geordie made to deliver odds and ends his wife was sending to her sisters but this didn’t bother Henry. As long as he reached his destination in time to have a decent sleep before starting work the next day that was all he needed. At least he was travelling on four wheels – maybe a bit hard on his backside but a lot easier on his feet.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Being the orra loon – the odd-job boy – wasn’t exactly as Henry Rae had envisioned. By the very name, he had known that the jobs would be dirty but he spent nearly all his time up to his elbows in muck and with his semmit sticking to his back with sweat. That in itself wouldn’t have been quite so bad if his sleeping quarters hadn’t been so awful.

  On his first day, Mr Legge had explained that there was no room in the bothy for him and he would have to sleep in the hayloft. ‘It’s fine and cosy up there,’ the farmer had gone on, ‘and it’ll only be till old Watson admits it’s time for him to retire. Once he goes, young Charlie Simpson’ll get that house and he and Betsy can get wed.’ Noticing the uncertainty on the boy’s face, he had added, ‘You’ll get his place in the bothy, d’you see? A month or so at the longest.’

  ‘Just a month or so?’ Henry had felt much better then.

  But he had been in the hayloft for nearly eight months now and there was no word of the first horseman retiring. It was reaching the point when Henry dreaded climbing the rickety ladder to the space under the roof, though he wouldn’t have minded it if he’d been on his own.

  It was his unexpected nightly companions that he was afraid of – the dark grey shapes that inched nearer to him if he lay still but scuttled out of sight if he moved. He was terrified that, in their obvious hunger, they would eat him alive when he was sleeping. In daytime, he could tell himself that the first bite would rouse him so there was no need to be scared. But, in the night, with darkness all around him and his heart beating as if there was somebody inside it pounding to get out, it wasn’t so easy to be brave.

  The other drawback to being the orra loon was the lack of company when he was working. Only very occasionally was he put on to help one of the other men and none of them seemed very friendly anyway. In the kitchen, he’d to sit at a small table in a corner on his own and conversations went on without a soul speaking to him. One of the young maids brought him his porridge and milk in the mornings and handed him his dinner piece to take away but the only one of them who had a smile for him had just left for a better job. The others, including her replacement, were either too scared that they’d be teased or too shy.

  He was sitting one morning, by himself as usual, when he noticed that the farmer was deep in conversation with the man called Watson. Henry, of course, could hear nothing of what was being said but he could see that the old man was a bit upset and wondered what had happened.

  The mystery was solved later that day. The boy had been detailed to clear a big drain in the byre and it was such a revolting job that his stomach was heaving in complaint when Jim Legge came in and stood for a while just watching him.

  ‘There’s bad news and there’s good news,’ the farmer said after a moment.

  ‘Aye?’ muttered Henry, cautiously. Bad news was something he didn’t want, even if it was followed by good.

  ‘Watson got a letter from his daughter in Fife this morning. Her man was working a tractor when something went wrong and it overturned on him. Poor man, he was trapped underneath.’

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’ Henry shuddered to think what might have happened.

  ‘Killed instantly, the letter said. So she wants her father to go and help her run their wee croft and he’s leaving on Saturday. It’s short notice for me but, on the other hand, as you know, I’ve been expecting him to retire.’

  ‘Aye.’ Now, with an idea of what was coming, Henry didn’t want to sound pleased.

  Legge looked at him speculatively. ‘Ach, lad, I thought you’d be quicker on the uptake. I said there was good news and all. Charlie Simpson’ll be moving into Watson’s house once it’s cleared out and you’ll get his place in the bothy. Not only that, it means a shift up, as well. You’ll get Charlie’s job as second horseman and I’ll need another orra loon.’

  Henry could hide his excitement no longer. ‘That’s great, Mr Legge! I wondered how much longer I was going to be …’ He halted, colouring in confusion.

  The man smiled sympathetically. ‘You wondered how much longer you’d have to sleep up there with the rats? You maybe thought I didn’t know but I was once an orra loon myself – when my father ran the place.’

  It took three weeks for the cottar house to be emptied – after which Jim Legge allowed Charlie Simpson and his bride-to-be to go in to clean it out. David Watson had lived alone since his wife died seven years before so things had got in a bit of a mess and a lot of work had to be done on it.

  The wedding took place in the farmhouse. Mrs Legge had helped the cook to prepare masses of food and, when the knot had been duly tied in the parlour, tables were carried in and covered with plates of cold sliced beef, pork and lamb, tureens of broth and lentil soup, dishes of vegetables, pies of various kind and hot casseroles.

  Jim Legge waited until everything was in place before he cried, ‘Come on, then, folk. Get stuck in! The quicker you shift this lot, the quicker we’ll get on to the next lot.’

  The ‘next lot’ was a selection of tempting puddings – pastries, sponges, jellies, trifles, caramelised oranges and much more. Most people ate so much they began complaining they were too full. As Mick Tyler – a carroty-haired, skinny youth who never minced his words – said, ‘My belly’s that fu’, it’s like to burst.’

  After the tables were cleared of food and set round the walls to hold the whiskies, port, cider, ginger ale and porter, there was a great rush, with the men almost knocking each over in their need for a drink.

  The ladies in the company stood by and watched with forced smiles or deep frowns, knowing that their men would get drunk no matter what they said so it was best to say nothing – until the next morning. Then the sparks would fly! The younger people, male and female, were just out to enjoy themselves while they had the chance and, at last, a fiddle and an accordion struck up, the bride’s father and his brother going at it full tilt, and the dancing began.

  Never having seen anything like this before, a mesmerised Henry stood beside Mick and Frankie Ross marvelling at the intricacies of the Dashing White Sergeant, the Eightsome Reel and the Strip the Willow and thinking dejectedly that he would never remember how to do them.

  Between these truly exhausting dances, there were, of course, a few Scottish waltzes and polkas that, although still somewhat boisterous, were not quite so physically tiring.

  ‘Och, Henry,’ Mick said, suddenly, ‘it’s a wedding, nae a frunial. Tak’ a wee drap o’ whisky, for God’s sake. It’ll maybe put a smile on your face.’

  Henry gave his head a shake, determined not to taste even a drop. That way lay temptation. One drop would give him a taste for it and he’d end up like all the other men, grinning like an idiot, face scarlet, eyes not focusing properly.

  ‘Come on,’ urged Frankie. ‘It’ll make you want to grab a lassie roond her waist and get in among the dancing.’

  Mick forced a small glass into the boy’s hand. ‘Get that doon you, Henry. It’ll put lead in your pencil.’

  The two youths doubled up with laughter but Henry laid the glass resolutely on the table. ‘No, thank you. I’m not going to start drinking.’

  As the evening wore on, more and more of the men grew too drunk to dance and, by midnight, only a few couples were taking the floor. By ten to one, the two men who made up the band were incapable of providing any music and the celebrations were forced to come to an end.

  But Mick Tyler’s odd remark lingered in Henry’s mind for most of what was left of the night.

  * * *

  Clearing up after breakfast the following morning, Janet Emslie wondered why Henry Rae was
still sitting there when the other men had gone out to work. There was something about this boy that raised motherly feelings in her breast, not just because he was such a wee thing. He was good-looking and all. His dark hair was quite curly and his green eyes always seemed to have a mischievous twinkle in them; his round cheeks were healthily rosy and his mouth was usually turned up in a smile. More than one serving-lass had said he looked like an elf and one, whose father had taken his family from Ireland, had said he reminded her of a leprechaun, always enjoying himself. He hadn’t looked as if he was enjoying himself last night, though, and he certainly wasn’t smiling this morning.

  ‘Is something worrying you, m’dearie?’ The cook regarded him sympathetically.

  Henry’s face reddened. ‘Can I ask you something – if you dinna mind?’

  ‘Ask what you like.’

  ‘It was something Mick Tyler said last night.’

  Now Janet understood. Mick was a good worker but his mouth would be none the worse of a good wash out with disinfectant sometimes. Like a sewer, it was. ‘Go on, bairn. Nothing Mick could say would shock me.’

  ‘Frankie wanted me to try a drop whisky and Mick said it would put lead in my pencil. What does that mean?’

  She couldn’t hold back the laugh, though she could see he was put out by it. ‘It doesna mean a thing,’ she gasped at last. ‘They were wanting you to … take up wi’ one o’ the lassies.’

  ‘But I still canna understand,’ the boy persisted, his eyes wide and serious. ‘How can I put lead in my pencil when I havena got a pencil? And, if I had, what am I supposed to write?’

  His earnest, pleading expression made her straighten her face, though it needed a great effort, and the explanation she gave, in the down-to-earth words she had learned through years of working with men, left him in no doubt as to what Mick had meant. Clearly overwhelmed with embarrassment when she ended, he rushed outside.

  Feeling that he was blushing from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, Henry looked for a quiet place to think and, passing the byre it came to him that the kye wouldn’t be taken in for the milking for hours yet. Casting a surreptitious glance around to make sure that nobody saw him, he scuttled inside and plopped down on the straw-strewn floor behind the door. As he should have known from previous experience in the cows’ domain, the stink was overpowering. His stomach was heaving already and he’d be sick in no time. He couldn’t concentrate here.

  Sneaking out again, he remembered the dairy. It, too, would be empty for hours yet. It was the cleanest place on the whole farm but he’d have to take care that the milkmaid didn’t come in and find him there. Again, he took up his position behind the door – it was the safest place.

  Hesitantly, he went over what the cook had told him, the strange words she had used and had explained by patting his front and her own. What Mick Tyler had called his ‘pencil’ was really his … No, he wasn’t even going to think the word – his Gramma would go daft if she knew what Janet had been saying to him. It wasn’t decent to discuss things like that. And it surely couldn’t be true? Was that really how bairns were made, like the cook had warned him? He could never do anything like that.

  In fact, he would never as much as touch any woman, except the one he took as his wife – if he ever took a wife, which he wasn’t at all sure about. It seemed to him that wives weren’t all the same and a man couldn’t be certain of getting a good one. He’d known of some fine wives and some bad – his father had had one of each. Mrs Legge was a good wife to the farmer, always laughing – he’d never seen her angry, though the kitchen maid must try her patience at times, she was so slow and dimwitted.

  What was it that made a woman a good wife, though? It couldn’t be a good figure – that was one thing. They came in all shapes and sizes, from tall and skinny Ina Sim, the ploughman’s wife, to Gramma, thin, too, but cuddly with it, to the farmer’s wife, who could only be classed as fat and it was a puzzle how Jim Legge could get his arms round her – though he must have managed at one time. Then there were women like Janet Emslie, not fat as such, just well padded all over, but her breasts didn’t swing when she walked like Nessie’s. Were they what had attracted his father enough to make her his wife?

  Henry felt uncomfortable thinking about breasts. They hadn’t figured in his thoughts before but Janet had said that fondling breasts was part of the lead-up to the taking. Intrigued by this and doing his utmost to picture it, he was startled by the sound of footsteps but the dairymaid walked in without noticing him in his dark corner. She stood for a minute or two, side on to him, thinking about a lad maybe, and he found his eyes drawn towards her bosom, swelling gracefully up from her waist – two perfectly-sized, well-rounded, pointy-finished … breasts.

  It was as well that the girl moved now, before his thoughts got out of hand. He kept still as she set about making the churns ready for the butter-making and washed out the pails ready for the five o’clock milking, before it dawned on him that the din she was making would be excellent cover for him to make his escape.

  He had no chance to dwell on what he had seen, however, until he was safely in his chaff bed in the bothy and the other inhabitants had finished their men’s rowdy talk. He had never looked purposely at any girl before, only at their faces, but breasts had been in his mind in the dairy – that was why he had noticed Louie’s. They weren’t big and horrible, like his father’s wife’s, nor as round as Janet’s, but she was still a young lassie, about the same age as his sister, so they were likely still growing. He had never noticed Abby’s, he was so used to seeing her, but the dairymaid’s looked pretty firm, though he wouldn’t know for real unless … he fondled them.

  Becoming aware that his wandering thoughts were having a most unusual effect on him, he reined them in, afraid of what might happen if he allowed the lead he could feel gathering in his ‘pencil’ to get out of control. Maybe it wouldn’t go away until he ‘took’ a lassie. Maybe.

  Trying to think of everyday, mundane things, he lay awake for some time but, when sleep finally overtook him, his dreams were of breasts – big, small, pointy, half-formed, of blouses being unbuttoned but never as far as to reveal the treasures lying below.

  In the morning, some more of Janet’s words came back to him. ‘Some men, you see, just use a woman but a decent man only touches her like that if he loves her.’

  Was that what a man did … used a woman? It wasn’t a very nice thing to do so Henry silently vowed that no woman or girl would ever say that he had used her. He would never touch a woman like that unless he had made her his wife first and, if a girl was expected to be pure on her wedding night, as Janet had also said, so it should be with the man. So it would be with him.

  On Christmas Day, Jim Legge made a surprise announcement at the breakfast table. ‘This has been a right good year for us and I’m that pleased with the work you did during the harvesting, I’m giving you all a day off. Not at the same time,’ he added, seeing some puzzled expressions. ‘The lads in the bothy and young Harry, our new orra loon, will get this Saturday coming and the rest of you, you’ll get yours the week after. Janet, you and the lassies can decide among yourselves who’ll be off this first Saturday and who’ll be off the next. If there’s no problems with this, I’ll do it every year so it’s up to yourselves.’

  Their day off was the sole topic in the bothy that night and it was decided that those who were off on the first Saturday would go to the New Year Dance that was to be held in Corrieben.

  ‘You should come, Henry,’ Mick coaxed. ‘You’re bound to meet a lass that’s mair than willing and, wi’ a few drinks inside you, you’ll nae care if she’s the right ane for you or no’.’

  Accustomed now to being teased about his refusal to drink alcohol as much as for his oft-voiced intention of keeping himself for the girl he married, Henry gave a guffawing laugh. ‘I’d rather bide here and read. I’ll get peace wi’ you lot awa’.’

  After a moment’s consideration, Mick put forward a mor
e acceptable proposition. ‘Well, you can get a len’ o’ my bike if you want to go and see your sister.’

  Henry jumped at the chance of seeing Abby again but, with little experience of bicycles, the almost ten-mile-journey was hard going for him. His welcome at the end of it, however, made up for every sweating minute, although his grandmother’s hugging made him hotter than ever.

  ‘Oh, laddie!’ Isie breathed when he broke away. ‘I’m that pleased to see you.’

  ‘Me and all,’ said Abby, keeping hold of his hand. ‘We’ve been wondering how you were getting on. Do you like it at Craigdownie?’

  ‘It’s not bad,’ Henry said, diplomatically, and gave them a brief description of the varied jobs he had to do. When his grandmother asked about the bothy, he didn’t tell her where he had slept for his first few months. And he only spoke briefly of the cramped quarters in the small stone building with the sod roof, the chaff mattress on the wooden board for a bed and the constant chatter that wouldn’t let him sleep for hours. ‘But Janet’s a good cook,’ he went on, not wanting them to feel sorry for him. ‘You should see the size of her porridge pot and the soup pot and all.’

  ‘How many does she feed?’ Isie wanted to know, thankful that she’d never had to cater for large numbers.

  ‘The married men go hame, of course, but there’s ten in the bothy, counting me and Harry the orra loon, Mr and Mrs Legge and Georgina, that’s their daughter, the cook, a kitchen-maid, a housemaid and … um … a dairymaid. That’s seventeen.’

  The pink tinge that had flushed his cheeks at the mention of the dairymaid made Isie say, ‘And have you got yoursel’ a lass yet?’

  His colour deepened further. ‘No, I’ve hardly spoken to any of them.’

  ‘Early days,’ she smiled, ‘you’re nae fourteen yet.’

  It seemed to him that the time was right to ask something that very occasionally bothered him. ‘Gramma, was it my fault my mother died?’