The Shadow of the Sycamores Page 5

  ‘Na, na, bairn! It was your father’s fault. He was aye coming hame drunk, you see, and getting on top o’ her and putting another bairn inside her belly.’ She stopped, aghast at what she had said. ‘I’m sorry, lad, I shouldna speak like that in front o’ you but it’s the God’s honest truth.’

  Apart from realising that this statement corroborated Janet Emslie’s lesson in human biology, something struck Henry as odd. ‘But there’s just five o’ us, Gramma – that’s not a lot.’

  She shook her head mournfully. ‘Five living but there was a lot mair than that.’

  ‘How many were there altogether?’ Henry persisted.

  ‘There was thirteen. So you see, it was a lot.’

  ‘Thirteen?’ Both the young people gaped at that.

  ‘The rest died – some wi’ pneumonia when they was infants, some wi’ galloping consumption when they was toddlers and some died afore they was born, poor souls. They was a’ lassies and all.’

  The boy glanced meaningfully at his sister who muttered apologetically, ‘Henry thinks Father’s not his real father.’

  Isie bridled. ‘For ony sake, loon! What gave you that idea?’

  ‘I didna really believe it at first but now … Do you not think it’s queer that he had twelve lassies? It’s like he couldn’t make a son.’

  Isie nearly choked laughing. ‘The Lord preserve us! You think your mother took up wi’ anither man?’ she gasped. ‘There was nae other man, Henry. Willie Rae was mair than enough for her. If she hadna died an’ you hadna been a laddie, he’d likely have made a lot mair.’

  ‘But, Gramma, that’s terrible. I ken it’s what the man does to the woman that makes the babies but how could any man make a woman have thirteen?’

  ‘Not all men are like your father, mind that Henry. If you keep your breeches buttoned, you’ll nae get in trouble and, once you’re wed, think on your mother afore you tak’ your pleasure wi’ your wife.’

  ‘I’ll remember that, Gramma, but why d’you think he’d to make thirteen afore he got me? It’s an awful lot.’

  ‘It was God’s will.’

  ‘Was it God’s will my mother died and all? He can’t be a very good God.’

  His grandmother heaved a long, shivery sigh. ‘Maybe God just took pity on my poor Bella …’

  Her abrupt stop, her hand on her chest, made both young people jump up in alarm.

  ‘Gramma!’ Henry cried, taking her free hand and massaging it. ‘What’s wrong? What is it? Tell me.’

  But Isie was past telling anybody anything.

  Henry slept with Abby that night again – or to be more precise, he shared her bed because sleep did not come to him. Even knowing that he might lose his job, he simply could not leave her on her own at such a time and he was plagued by the worry of what the future would hold for them. Doctor Michie had offered to let his father know what had happened but he had pleaded with the man not to tell anybody.

  ‘You need a man here, Henry, lad. The burden of arranging a funeral and all the other things that have to be done after someone passes on is too great for a boy your age to carry. Whatever went wrong between you should be forgotten and I’m sure Willie would want to attend to what has to be done. She was his mother-in-law, wasn’t she? And she looked after the family for some years after your mother died.’

  The boy couldn’t deny this. ‘But he threw her out when he took another wife.’

  ‘Threw her out? Surely not. Asked her to leave, perhaps?’

  ‘It was Nessie Munro’s fault but my father didn’t stop her.’

  ‘Ah, well, my boy, a man does not argue with his bride.’

  Recalling the doctor’s expression when he left, Henry knew what would happen and he wasn’t in the least surprised when his father walked straight into the spare bedroom without knocking at seven the next morning, with Nessie following in behind him – her obvious reluctance becoming outrage when she saw the boy with his arms round his sister.

  ‘Would you credit that, Willie?’ she shouted. ‘They’ve been … you know, with their grandmother lying lifeless in the next room!’

  ‘Haud your wheesht, wumman!’ Willie snapped. ‘They’re only bairns, for God’s sake!’ Striding over to the bed, he took his bewildered children into his arms, soothing them as they burst into tears.

  Before that day was out, all arrangements had been made for the funeral, most of Isie’s neighbours volunteering to bake or cook something for after the burial. Willie had registered the death with John Gow’s replacement utterly sober and without a thought to the last shambolic time he had been there. (Willie’s second marriage had been conducted and registered at Nessie’s own kirk in Corrieben, five miles away.)

  A steady stream of Isie’s friends and acquaintances and the keepers of the shops she had used called over the next few days, each with only complimentary things to say about her, each stressing how much they would miss her. Abby and Henry were overwhelmed by it all and it was not until after the funeral, after all the mourners had left, that they were alone with their father and stepmother. Nessie was so quiet, so receptive to all that was suggested, that it was glaringly apparent that Willie had given her a good talking-to but Henry was not in a forgiving mood towards either of them.

  ‘You’ll have to come home now, the two of you,’ Willie said, not as an order, more of a tentative question.

  Before Henry could say a word, Abby astonished them all. ‘No, Father, I’m not going home with you. Gramma let me do what I wanted, within reason, and I’ve discovered I can make a living with my sewing – not a great living but all I need. I’ll soon be sixteen and I’m able to look after myself. And Henry’s welcome to come back and bide wi’ me if he’s lost his job.’

  Clearly rattled, Willie got noisily to his feet. ‘I could take you both back, you ken,’ he ground out. ‘You’re still minors till you’re twenty-one.’

  Ignoring him, Abby turned to her brother. ‘What about it, Henry? Will you come and live here with me? You could get a job somewhere near and, if you wanted to get married sometime, there’s plenty room.’

  He was torn between compassion for her and his own need to be independent. He wanted to make something of himself – he wanted to have a wife and bairns … but not in a house he would be sharing with his sister. He didn’t, however, want to upset her tonight and especially not in front of the other two. ‘I’ll have to think about it, Abby,’ he said, softly, and then turned to his father. ‘But I’ll definitely not be going back to your house. Never! Like Abby, I’ve had a taste of freedom and I’m not going to put myself in that position again.’

  After a curt ‘Suit yoursel’s, then!’ Willie pushed his now simpering wife towards the door and Abby turned tearfully to her brother, who held her until all the emotions she’d had to hold back that day had flooded out, then he made her sit down until he explained how he felt. ‘I don’t like leaving you here on your own, though,’ he added after he made it clear that he wouldn’t take up her offer of a home.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she told him. ‘I’ve made plenty friends at this end of the town – boys as well as girls. She smiled shyly.

  ‘Oh, is there somebody special?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind if there was but he hasn’t …’

  ‘Well, I hope it goes well for you, Abby.’

  ‘I hope you’ll find the right girl for you and all when you’re a few years older.’

  ‘Aye. I’ll have to go back to Craigdownie in the morning to return Mick’s bike. If John Legge doesna keep me on, I’ll look for some place else but, wherever I am, I’ll come and see you as often as I can. Now, I think we need to get some sleep.’ His stepmother’s disgust coming back to him, he went on, ‘But not in the same bed. Nessie was right – we really shouldn’t have.’

  Unfortunately for Henry, the couch in the parlour was so uncomfortably lumpy and noisy that he couldn’t sleep but the only alternative was his grandmother’s bed, where her body had lain until it was transferred to t
he coffin, and he certainly wouldn’t have been able to sleep there.

  Going over what had happened three days before, he wondered if it had been his fault that his grandmother had died. He had more or less accused his mother – her daughter – of adultery. But Gramma had been tough. She had known why he said it and she hadn’t seemed angry with him.

  She also had a long experience of life. She knew what she spoke about and he was definitely not going to turn his wife – if he ever took a wife, which he didn’t feel too sure about at the moment – into a machine for producing babies. He would ask her, just after putting the ring on her finger, how many children she wanted and he would abide by her decision. No woman would die because he couldn’t control his passions.

  His mind made up on that, he turned over with a lighter heart and, just before falling asleep, he made another vow. According to Gramma, it was the strong drink that fuelled lust and he would never, ever, touch liquor of any kind. It was true what the Band of Hope taught. Drink was the downfall of all men.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jim Legge was furious. ‘Are you sure he knew he’d to come back last night?’

  Mick Tyler shrugged. ‘I didna tell him, Mr Legge. I thought he’d ken.’

  The farmer looked round the breakfast table. ‘Did he tell any of you where he was going?’ He bared his teeth for a moment at the blank stares that were the only responses. ‘He didn’t definitely say he was going to see his sister so he could be anywhere?’ A new thought struck him. ‘Has he left any of his things?’

  Mick looked at Frankie Ross who mumbled, ‘We never looked, Mr Legge.’

  ‘He’ll turn up.’ Mrs Legge was something of an optimist. ‘He could have had a puncture.’

  Her husband had spent enough time on the missing second horseman. ‘Harry,’ he snapped, turning to the lad at the corner table, ‘you can give Davey a hand today and, if Henry doesn’t turn up by tonight, you can have his job for good.’

  The orra loon’s eyes lit up at the prospect of this unexpected promotion. ‘Right you are, Mr Legge. ‘You can trust me. I’ll not let you down.’

  This was too much for Janet Emslie. ‘The poor laddie could be lying in a ditch for all you folk care. Somebody should be out looking for him.’

  It was a busy time on the farm with fields to be ploughed for the spring planting as well as seeing to the new lambs and all the other on-going jobs and Jim Legge did not relish the prospect of another of his men taking time off. His conscience, however, gave enough of a twinge to make him say, ‘I suppose I could let you take the trap, Mick, and see if he did go to his sister’s. Is she married or is she still at home with their mother and father?’

  Mick shook his head. ‘He’s never said nothing about a mother and father. He just said he’d a sister but he never said where she bade.’

  ‘He once said something to me about his grandmother,’ Charlie Simpson offered, ‘but he didna say where she bade either.’

  ‘That’s it, then!’ The farmer obviously considered that they had wasted too much time already. ‘You go with Charlie, Harry, and the rest of you get on with what you were supposed to be doing. Mick, just a quick scout around, remember. I want you back here in an hour.’

  When the men had left, the farmer’s wife turned to the cook. ‘I can see you’re not happy about this, Janet, but there’s nothing we can do. Henry might have had too much drink yesterday and wasn’t fit to cycle back but no doubt he’ll turn up today.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Janet watched the mistress and her daughter as they went out, then she turned to her young assistant. ‘What do you think, Maidie? Henry wouldna have been drinking, I’m near sure o’ that.’

  ‘He was dead against the drink,’ the girl agreed.

  The absentee was the main topic again the following morning, the discussion ending by Jim Legge officially giving the second horseman’s job to Harry. By the next day, everyone had got back to normal and forgotten about him – except Janet Emslie. She had taken to Henry Rae the first day she saw him. He was different from all the uncouth orra loons they’d had before – quieter, more serious, innocent. A smile played at the corner of her mouth at the memory of his childlike confusion over the ‘pencil’ he didn’t have.

  This latest business wasn’t funny, though, she chided herself as she pounded a great lump of dough. The lad could be ill – or his sister – or his grandmother, if that was where he’d gone. They would surely have heard by this time if he’d had an accident – so he could still turn up and there would be no job for him. Young Harry was managing fine in his place and the ploughman’s laddie had now been taken on as orra loon. It was as if Jim Legge had thrown Henry on the midden.

  For the rest of that day, the cook got more and more depressed worrying how he would feel when he learned what had happened and, by the time she went to bed, her heart was as sore as his would be when he did make his appearance.

  She found herself drifting in and out of a troubled sleep and rose even more tired and upset than she had been the night before – even remembering that it was Sunday and her afternoon off did nothing to cheer her. Her brother had promised to take her to see their mother and she was actually dreading the confrontation there was bound to be but, once she rose, she had no time to brood on her own problem – or Henry’s.

  At twelve o’clock, with everything left ready for Maidie to serve at one on the dot, Janet went up to her room to make ready. She dressed in her winter dress, a black bombazine with a line of black pearl buttons marching from the high neck to just below her waist, and black satin ribbon highlighting the pin tucks. She usually felt her spirits lift when she wore it but not today. She took her best bonnet listlessly from its tin box, giving the curled feathers a blow before putting it on and studying her reflection in the tilting mirror. She supposed she would pass in a crowd but what did it matter where she was going?

  She still felt guilty at having put Ma away but, as Roderick had said, they couldn’t have left her on her own. She was over eighty, though she didn’t like to admit it, and her mind had been going for some time now. She had nearly set the house on fire once – only her next-door neighbour’s keen sense of smell had prevented it. She had broken practically all her dishes – whether by accident or on purpose was difficult to know for she had a vile temper when something upset her.

  It was heart-breaking to see the once fastidious, hardworking woman in the state she’d been that last time, unwashed for weeks on end, thin as a knife blade for want of the food she believed she had eaten, yet not a morsel could have passed her lips.

  Janet had had to draw Roderick’s attention to that, she recalled sadly, for men never see what they don’t want to see and they had talked over what they should do – talked and talked without coming to any decision. Luckily, the same neighbour had mentioned her worry about the old woman to her doctor and it was he who had solved the problem.

  Hearing the sound of a light carriage crunching on the gravel, Janet put on her cape and went out at the back door, where Roderick helped her into his little gig. As manager of a drapery shop in Oldmeldrum, he was always dressed in a smart suit and dark homburg which, with his neatly trimmed moustache, made him look quite distinguished. Janet felt quite proud to be sitting beside him as they bowled along.

  ‘I wonder how she’ll be?’ he asked suddenly.

  Janet made a wry face. ‘I hope she’s settled in.’

  ‘They would have let us know if she had not.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so.’

  No more was said for another few minutes until Janet burst out, ‘I hope they treat her all right. I’d hate to think they were ill-using her. I’ve heard stories about what goes on in madhouses.’

  Roderick tutted loudly. ‘Nonsense! The doctor said The Sycamores is nothing like an asylum.’

  ‘But it’s for mad folk.’

  ‘They are not mad in the sense that you mean. With some, like Ma, it is just the effect of old age but there are others who have had some sort o
f bad experience that has knocked them off balance for a time.’

  ‘But it’s costing such a lot o’ money, Roderick. I feel terrible that I canna help.’

  ‘I do not begrudge it. She made sure that I had a good education.’

  Janet was well aware of that. Her brother’s schooling had been the reason for her lack of it, for her having to go out to work at such an early age to help pay for his books, but she wasn’t one to hold a grudge either. ‘What’ll happen if she’s in there for years? Her body’s good for a long time yet.’

  ‘What a worrier you are, Janet. I would not have let her be sent there if I had not given thought to that. As long as my business keeps up and the fees are not increased too much, she can stay there for as long as she lives.’ He patted her hand. ‘Does that ease your mind?’

  ‘Roderick, I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been able to pay …’

  ‘I know that you had to make sacrifices for my sake when we were younger so look on this as me returning that kindness. Put your mind at rest now, my dear sister; there is nothing more for you to worry about.’

  Janet was in a far better mood on the way back to Craigdownie – even though her mother had not recognised either her or Roderick. There was such an improvement in her – her cheeks rosier and not caved in, as they had been, her movements and speech much more decisive. She had held a sensible conversation with them about the daily routine; she had described some of the women she seemed to have made friends with; they had learned about the changing menus, the choices they had. ‘And they won’t let us wash any dishes,’ she had beamed, proudly. ‘There’s women to do all that and keep the place clean and all and there’s nice girls to look after us.’

  They had not known what to say to her but obviously, under the impression that they were strangers, she did not expect them to say much. Even when they rose to leave, she showed no sign of recognition. ‘It was nice to speak to you,’ she had smiled, holding her hand out. ‘Will I see you again?’