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  ‘Becky wants you looking smart, my pet, so for her … and me, eh? It’s just for one day, you ken. One day’s nae that lang.’

  And so the kilt was donned on the morning of the wedding and Willie Fowlie became one of Prince Charles Stuart’s soldiers for one day … or part of a day. Everything was going without a hitch, but just as Willie was making his way down the ladder, one of his schoolmates spotted him and ran into the parlour to tell the other boys who were there with their parents. The Highlander was greeted with roars of raucous laughter.

  Gramma Fowlie, close behind her grandson to prevent him turning and going back, was not prepared for what he did then. Unbuckling the sporran, he flung it on the floor and got himself divested of the ‘skirt’ in spite of all the woman’s efforts to stop him. She was, however, greatly relieved that he had refused to come downstairs without his drawers on, even if she had told him real Highlanders wore nothing under their kilts.

  Poor Becky had to be content with the photographer placing her pageboy at the rear of the wedding group so that just his head and shoulders could be seen. Released from bondage, Willie disappeared to his attic and wouldn’t come down until his Gramma Fowlie told him all the goodies would be eaten and there would be nothing for him if he didn’t go down that very minute. Becky was mortified at what had happened, Emily was mortified, ashamed and furious at her son, but the rest of the party, especially the men, thought it had been hilarious. Jake was torn between having a laugh at his son’s expense, being proud of him for sticking to his guns and feeling angry at him for spoiling his big sister’s wedding day. He didn’t worry about it after a couple of drinks, though, and carried out the duties of father of the bride and head of the house, exhorting all the other men to ‘Ha’e another dram. Dinna worry aboot what the wife’s goin’ to say in the mornin’, enjoy yoursel’s the nicht. We’re a lang time deid, eh lads?’

  They needed no further coaxing, and their wives, as they always did on such occasions, knew better than to try to rein in their men while they were drunk. Nemesis could wait until they were sober. The younger men were more interested in the girls than in the intoxicating liquor, and gradually most of them, plus an equal number of young females, would have been found to be missing if anyone had been counting them. Emily, of course, realised at one point that Connie had disappeared and tried to think which of the boys she could have disappeared with, but so many were absent that she gave up the struggle. She didn’t want to show herself as an over-protective mother, and in any case, whatever her older daughter was doing, it was probably too late now to stop her. Retribution for her, her father and her little brother would have to wait until next day.

  Willie, dressed in his school breeks now, was running around with the other bairns, playing hide-and-seek or tick-and-tack, or What’s the Time Mr Wolf, and getting in everybody’s way. Not that anybody minded, for the alcohol – liberally provided by Tom Burns – was having a calming effect on all who partook of it. Nobody at all had gone the other way, thank goodness, the aggressive way that sometimes took over.

  It was well after the ‘witching hour’ before the party began to break up. The whole house was full of cigarette smoke and the reek of whisky, which made the youngest members of the company cry because their eyes were nipping, and the mothers shepherded – almost carried – their protesting husbands towards the door. As Beenie Middleton barked to hers, ‘Shift yoursel’, for ony sake, an’ I wouldna like to ha’e a sair heid like you’ll ha’e in the mornin’, you drunken bugger.’

  Obviously accustomed to this form of address from his wife, he leered at her with a vacant grin, but she shook off the arm he was trying to slide round her waist and thrust him from her with a look of disgust.

  It was wearing on for one o’clock before Emily got her brood settled down, Jake being the worst to get to bed. Connie didn’t appear to be in the least hang-dog, so she surely hadn’t done anything she shouldn’t, Emily mused, as she took off her clothes and crept in beside her already dead-to-the-world husband. She couldn’t bear to let her thoughts dwell on seventeen-year-old Becky, whose groom had taken her for a night’s stay in a posh hotel in Aberdeen before their fortnight’s honeymoon in Edinburgh. They’d taken the nine o’clock train and had likely been in bed for hours by now – Jackie Burns had shown signs of impatience before they left, and no doubt would have taken his way with his bride as soon as they went into their hotel room.

  Emily drew in a long shuddery breath. She could only hope and pray that the poor lass hadn’t had too big a shock. On her own wedding night, Jake had been gentle and loving – as he still was on the widely spaced nights when he claimed his rights as her husband – and maybe Jackie was the same, but so many other wives told a different story. She turned over carefully, her back to the grunting snores, and wished that she’d made Connie help her to tidy the kitchen before they came to bed. It was an awful thought having to rise in the morning to all that work before they could have any breakfast.

  Connie was undecided whether to be glad or sorry. She was glad that she hadn’t gone against what her mother had taught her – not to let any boy touch her until she was wed to him – but she wished she’d had the nerve to let Gordie Brodie do what he wanted. She nearly had, oh, how nearly! If he’d persisted for just another second or so, she’d have let him; it was only the thought of Mam’s anger that stopped her. Plus, if he’d bairned her, Dad would have half killed her, and him, or thrown her out of the house, and she’d have nowhere to go. Gordie wasn’t the marrying kind, she knew that, and he’d just wanted to be able to tell his friends she was an easy lay. Aye, she wasn’t under any misapprehension about that, but she wished she’d tasted the forbidden fruit just this once. She might never get another chance.

  Willie, too, was thinking, wishing now that he’d kept on the kilt. It hadn’t been so bad, really. If Malcie Middleton hadn’t made everybody laugh, he wouldn’t have minded. He’d felt quite important being one of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s soldiers. Och, well, it couldn’t be helped now, and he hadn’t missed much while he was upstairs. In fact, he’d seen something he supposed he shouldn’t have seen and it would be best to keep his mouth shut about it. He’d been standing on his bed looking out of the skylight in his attic room, when he spotted Gordie Brodie by the coalshed, and at first it looked as if he was having a pee because the privy was occupied, but it soon became clear that he was pushing another person against the wall. Wondering if there was going to be a fight, it had dawned on the boy that the other body was a girl, and the two were so busy kissing they wouldn’t have noticed if a whole army had been watching them. Willie gave a sarcastic snicher. Fancy kissing a girl, soppy devil. Nobody would ever catch him doing a thing like that. He’d no time for girls. His brows came down suddenly, as the lad bent over to lift the lassie’s skirt. She hadn’t been happy about that, though, and lashed out with her feet, twisting her head this way and that to stop further kisses. That was when he saw that the girl was his sister Connie, and he felt quite proud of the fight she was putting up. But what a nerve Brodie had. He wasn’t a gentleman, that was for sure.

  Fascinated, Willie had kept watching until her knee landed full tilt against her attacker’s most delicate parts. Gordie jumped away with a yell, holding himself as Connie made her escape, and her young brother had collapsed on his bed and rolled about with laughter. Although Gramma Fowlie had come in just a few minutes afterwards to tell him to come downstairs for something to eat, and had looked surprised when she heard him gurgling, he didn’t tell her anything.

  Recalling the whole episode, Willie curled up under his bedcovers and soon drifted off into a deep, comfortable sleep in which he dreamed of standing beside Bonnie Prince Charlie and running forward to thrust his claymore deep into the advancing enemy, who all bore an uncanny resemblance to Gordon Brodie.

  Chapter Eight

  December 1931

  Jake knew exactly how his ten-year-old son felt. He had felt the same when he was that age. A bike made yo
u feel nearly grown-up. Travelling along the roads with the wind blowing in your face and the bushes and trees whizzing past you was just like being on top of the world – no other experience could match it, but there was no money to buy a bike for the laddie. He’d been in a different position himself; having so many cousins of various ages, he got a bike handed down to him at each stage of his growing up – in addition to the hand-me-down clothes that were not quite so welcome to him. His mother had been very grateful for them, though, for money was always short for the Fowlies then, as well.

  The man had been trying for weeks to think of ways to save enough for a bike. Willie was forever harping on about being the only boy he knew that didn’t have a bike, and it would be a grand Christmas present. But no matter what he did or who he asked, nobody had a bicycle for sale or knew where he could get one at a price he could afford. So it was like an answer to a prayer when, clearing out an old shed that had lain unused for some years, he came across the frame of an old Raleigh, left there by some previous cottared man. But further, frantically hopeful searching produced no other parts of the vehicle, full-sized though it was. Jake decided to keep it anyway, for the rest must be lying about somewhere.

  Willie himself had meanwhile been telling those of his chums who possessed a bicycle to keep their ears open. ‘If you hear onybody wantin’ to sell a bike, let me ken,’ were his instructions to them. Malcolm Middleton – Malcie to all and sundry – offered to take him round the rubbish dumps on the back of his bike, and all the neighbouring farmyards, which offer Willie instantly accepted.

  Thus it was that the two boys could be seen, one pedalling and the other seated on the carrier, making the rounds of the places where they might just see an old bike that somebody had thrown out. Their quest was not entirely fruitless; on one tip they found two wheels, tyres as flat as pancakes .

  ‘Och, the rubber’s fair perished,’ Malcie exclaimed, ‘they’re nae use.’

  Willie was not discouraged. ‘We’ll mebbe get better tyres someplace else,’ he crowed.

  And so they took the wheels back and hid them in one of the outhouses he knew his father never used, shoving them under a piece of old tarpaulin covering something at the very back. ‘It’s a frame, Malcie,’ shouted Willie, almost jumping his own height with joy. ‘I never ken’t that was there.’

  Over the next few weeks, taking them well into 1932, their pilgrimage spawned most of the other parts Willie needed. The final item eluded them for six further weeks, but at last, on top of a dump they had searched in months earlier, they found the handlebars. The two boys couldn’t get back quickly enough to start assembling their trophies, doing their best to keep their activities hidden from Willie’s mother and father.

  Jake, of course, whose own search for parts had come up with nothing more than his initial find, decided that he had wasted his time and would be best to throw it on a tip somewhere. When he went to retrieve it from his outhouse, he was astonished to find a bicycle under construction, but decided to keep the boy’s ploy secret from his wife.

  Keeping a lookout for his son going to school the following morning, he called him over to the paling he was repairing. ‘I see you’ve got the makin’s o’ yer bike,’ he began. Willie waited for the row he was sure would come, but his father went on, ‘You’ve done real weel, son, but I think ye’d best let me tighten up the screws and things for you.’

  ‘Was it you that got the frame?’ At his father’s smiling nod, he added, ‘You see, Dad, I want to be able to say it was just me an’ Malcie Middleton that did it.’

  Jake guffawed. ‘Weel, I’m real prood o’ you, lad, but mind an’ tighten every screw as far as it’ll go.’

  ‘We’ll mak’ sure o’ that, Dad, dinna worry.’

  It was a good three weeks before the two boys were satisfied that their creation was roadworthy and started going for cycle runs together. Knowing how reckless her son was, Emily wasn’t too happy about him being let loose on a vehicle he’d made himself, but he was a big laddie now, nearly as big as Jake, so she resolved to stop being over-protective. He wouldn’t listen to any of her fears in any case.

  She soon discovered that he was much more amenable to being asked to go to the shop in the village for anything she needed, and was there and back in less than thirty minutes. With little thought to his safety on such a rickety contraption, she sent him on all sorts of errands – although the first time she asked him to take her usual three dozen eggs to the village shop to be sold – the grocer’s van had stopped coming some time ago – she was a wee bit worried about the safety of the eggs. But there had been no complaint from the shop and it became a regular task for Willie every Friday.

  She felt strangely pleased with him now. As she observed to Connie one day, ‘What a difference that bike’s made to him. I can depend on him now, for he’s not as daft as he used to be.’

  Connie nodded. ‘You were aye too hard on hm. He wasna as bad as you made out.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right, lass, but … well, a leopard never changes its spots, as it says in the good book. I just wonder, though …’ Shaking her head, she broke off.

  Glad of the chance to air her little piece of good news, Connie said, hesitantly, ‘Gordie’s asked me to his house for my supper the morra. He says it was his mother’s idea.’ Emily’s expression made her add, hastily, ‘I think he’s serious about me, Mam, and I’m serious about him.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s the lad for you, lass?’ Emily had never taken to Gordon Brodie. He was too full of his own importance, and had treated Jake and her like dirt the few times she’d let Connie invite him there. Plus, and it was a big plus, if he was serious about the girl, he’d taken far too long to tell his folk. Still, she mused, if her daughter was truly in love, she was willing to put aside her own feelings.

  Connie eyed her mother reflectively. ‘I’ve never thought he was the lad for me, Mam, but nane o’ the other lads have looked twice at me.’

  ‘You should tell him you’re not wanting him, then. Other lads are maybe scared to ask you out if they think you’re his girl.’

  ‘You think that’s what it is?’ Connie seemed more cheerful.

  The porch door banged open to admit Willie, who flung his satchel down on the floor before coming into the kitchen, at which his mother and sister both cried, ‘Pick that up!’ Bending down with a scowl, he lifted the bag and hung it on the peg on the door.

  Heaving a sigh, Emily said firmly, ‘And never mind sitting down. You know fine this is Friday, and you’ve to take the eggs to the shop.’

  ‘OK, but can I get a piece an’ jam first?’

  The two women laughed to each other as they watched him cut a thick slice off the loaf and spread it thickly with Emily’s home-made strawberry jam. Then he went out by the back door, first lifting the basket of eggs which had been sitting on a shelf in the porch, the tackets on his boots making sparks fly from the stone flags on the floor.

  Emily turned to Connie again. ‘D’you think Becky’s putting on weight?’

  ‘I haven’t noticed.’

  ‘I’ve the feeling she’s expecting.’

  ‘Ach, Mam, you’re imagining things. Becky doesn’t want any kids, that would spoil her figure.’

  ‘But it’s not always what you want, is it? I’m sure Jackie wants a family. Most girls are expecting before they can draw breath after the wedding.’

  Connie gave a little giggle. ‘Now you’re coming the bag a bit, but I’ll tell you this, I hope I can find a husband quick, or I’ll be past the age for having any bairnies.’

  ‘Oh, Connie, you’re just a chicken yet.’

  ‘I’ll be twenty-one in August.’

  ‘You’ve plenty time yet to have your family. Beenie was near forty-four when she had her Alice. You’ve another twenty years – you might end up with a whole jing-bang of babies.’ God forbid, she added silently.

  Rebecca Burns was anything but happy about her pregnancy. The morning sickness she’d dreaded had b
een worse than she’d imagined, lasting for most of the day sometimes, and she couldn’t bear the thought that her belly would start to grow enormous. Of course, it might put Jackie off her, which would be a blessing, for he kept on asking and she kept on refusing, and that couldn’t go on for ever. He would get fed up of it, and turn to some other girl, not that it would bother her, except he might want to leave her. That would be a proper calamity. She was now part of a fairly well-to-do family, and she didn’t want to lose that security.

  If she could get rid of this encumbrance, she would be quite happy to remain as Jackie’s wife, having the wherewithal to buy what she liked and when she liked. She made a trip to Aberdeen at least once a month – Jackie had never complained about it – and that would have to stop if he decided to divorce her. Tom Burns had given them this cottage as a wedding present, so she would likely have to leave, and God knows where she would go. No doubt her parents would take her in, but she didn’t want to go back to scrimping and saving for a year before she could afford to buy a new dress. No, she had better watch her step and keep hold of what she had got.

  One thing she could do, though, to get her life back to what it was, get rid of this blasted infant or whatever they called it at this stage. She was just over three months late, so it should be all right. She’d heard about a woman in Tillyburnie that got rid of them for fifty pounds and no questions asked, so she’d go to her. Nobody knew about it anyway, so tongues wouldn’t wag.

  Having received the money for the eggs he had taken in, Willie accepted the usual long stick of barley sugar the grocer’s wife always gave him. ‘Ta, Mrs Gill,’ he beamed. ‘See you next Friday.’

  With no reason now to go carefully, he swung purposefully on to his steed and rode off, cracking his whip in the air to urge it on. He had repelled several English invaders when it occurred to him to drop in past Malcie Middleton – now working for McIntyre of Wester Burnton – to show him how well the ‘Raleigh’ was doing as a charger, and swerved into the farm road.