Chapter Twenty-two

Jenny decided to wait until she had given her mother-in-law her dinner before telling her the news. She had got so frail over the past few months that the least little thing put her off eating. Carrying over a bowl of potato soup, she sat down to spoon it to the elderly woman, with a cloth ready to wipe any dribbles that ran down her chin.

‘When’s Mick due hame?’ Hannah asked, when the bowl was empty.

‘He just went away this morning, and he’s not expecting to be back for about six months this time.’ Jenny’s heart was sore, for this would be the longest time they had ever been apart. ‘Now, would you like some rice pudding?’

‘If you havena put raisins in it.’

‘There’s no raisins in it. I know you don’t like them.’

‘A wee drop, then.’

Standing up to serve the rice, Jenny had a look in the pram to make sure her six-month-old son was coping with the bottle she’d had to put him on when her own milk dried up. Poor wee soul, his grandmother took up most of her attention … but he seemed to be thriving.

‘I’ll wait a while for my cup o’ tea,’ Hannah remarked, when Jenny gave her the last spoonful of rice. ‘I’m full up the now.’

Having gulped her own pudding down during the feeding, Jenny laid the empty plate on the table. ‘Hannah, I’ve something to tell you.’

‘Something good, I hope.’

Jenny had to smile. ‘I’m having another baby … about Christmas again.’

She couldn’t help recalling what Mick had said when she told him – in bed on the first night of his last leave. ‘George was supposed to be at Christmas, and all. Is it you or me that functions better in March?’

She had laughed. ‘They say a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love in the spring.’

‘Just thoughts of love, not filling your wife’s belly again. Oh, I’m sorry, Jen, in more ways than one. First, I shouldn’t speak men’s talk to you, and second, I didn’t mean us to have another baby yet. You’ve enough to do without that.’

‘Mick, I want you to be as glad about this baby as I am.’

‘But I’ve been selfish … just thinking of my own enjoyment.’

She had put her fingers over his mouth. ‘Do you think I don’t enjoy it? Mick, my darling, I wouldn’t mind if you put a dozen babies in my belly … as long as they weren’t all there at once.’

They had both laughed … until an animal lust took hold of them, the three months of enforced separation making it all the fiercer yet all the sweeter. Remembering all the other times they’d made love before he went back to his ship, a hunger swept through Jenny, a hunger that wouldn’t be assuaged until the child she was carrying had left her womb.

‘Another baby?’ Hannah barked suddenly. She obviously didn’t think it was good news. ‘And how d’you think you’re going to look after it when you’ve me and wee Georgie depending on you and all?’

‘I’ll manage. The thing is, Mick says he’ll apply for Christmas leave, but there’s no guarantee he’ll get it, and Babsie’s not fit to help now, but Elsie’s offered to come and keep house. She says Rosie Mac’ll not mind looking after Pattie and Tommy.’

‘Elsie?’ There was a deep scowl on Hannah’s face now. ‘Her that comes in on Thursdays?’

Jenny smiled. ‘That’s right. You’ll be fine with her.’

‘No, I dinna like her. There’s something …’ Hannah halted, fingers plucking at the rug over her knees.

Wondering why she’d taken such a dislike to Elsie – it had been going on for a long time now, like she’d a grudge against her – Jenny said curtly, ‘It’ll just be till I’m on my feet again.’

Hannah’s mind was already off what she was trying to remember about Elsie. ‘Folk would think I was stupid, Lizann, the way you speak to me. Your father would soon tell you.’

Jenny gave a deep sigh. ‘Nobody thinks you’re stupid.’

‘When’ll Mick be hame?’

‘Not for months.’ Jenny didn’t bother reminding her she’d asked that less than half an hour ago. She often asked the same thing a dozen times a day and took offence if it was pointed out to her. And she was always getting worse. Goodness knows what she’d be like by the time the baby arrived.

Since Dan first spoke to Lizann and Cheeky by the burn, she had made a point of never varying their route, and he put in his appearance on most nights. She had lost her initial awkwardness with him, and could talk to him freely, as he seemed to do to her. He had told her about his time at university, about Ella, his sister in Aberdeen who had let him lodge with her while he was studying, and he had drawn her out to tell him something of her earlier life. To begin with, she had limited herself to her childhood in the Yardie, but little by little she told him about how she had met George, why they’d had to wait so long until they could be married, and when Dan asked the other night why they were no longer together, how she had lost him.

Dan had placed his large, rough hand over hers then, and murmured, ‘I knew by your eyes the first time I saw you that you’d had some tragedy in your life, but I didn’t dream … Oh, Lizann, I’m truly sorry.’

Recalling this one hot morning in September, she wondered what they would speak about tonight if she saw him. Should she tell him about losing the baby as well? She didn’t want his pity, but if he believed that was why she’d run away from Buckie and started selling fish, it would save her having to give any other explanation. The thing was, it would make her sound as if she had no backbone, when it wasn’t really what had made her flee like a coward. It had been the culmination of a whole lot of things: George being drowned, the baby, lack of money, what Elsie had accused her of doing and the threat, topped by Jenny’s remark, which she had likely misunderstood – she’d been in such a state.

Her reverie was interrupted by Martha saying, ‘Here’s Adam and the soup not dished up.’

Flinging his cap on to the couch when he came in, her brother took his seat at the table without a word, and she eyed him anxiously. ‘Your face is just running with sweat. You shouldn’t be working in this heat.’

‘The day I stop working’ll be the day they put me in my box,’ he said dolefully.

‘It’s not just the heat that’s bothering you, though.’ Martha knew her brother inside out.

‘I was minding … it’s a year ago the day since war was declared.’

‘But it’s not affecting us.’

‘It will. I can mind the stories the men told when they came back from the last war, the ones that came back, and some of them never got over the terrible things they’d seen.’

She could say nothing to that, and he went on, ‘It’s going to be a lot worse this time, for Hitler’s been preparing for war for years, the time we were hiding our heads in the sand like ostriches.’

For a few moments he seemed to be thinking, then he said, ‘I wasn’t conscripted the last time, for I was a married man and coming up for forty-three, but Mr Fordyce, old Duncan, he’d to attend I don’t know how many tribunals to try to keep the young men from having to go. It didn’t make any odds though, for they were still taken.’

‘So he had to get other workers?’ Lizann asked, finding this history lesson fascinating.

‘There was nobody to get – they were all away fighting. There was just him and me and a fourteen-year-old laddie to keep the whole place going and it was damned hard work, I can tell you. Old Duncan had to ask some of the wives to help with the harvests and they worked as well as any of us, my Peg for one.’

Remembering his wife he lapsed into silence, and was so morose when he came home for his supper that Lizann was glad to go out after the meal was over. When she saw Dan, however, he too could talk only about the war. ‘I’d love to do my bit, but I have to keep running the farm.’

‘I’m glad you won’t have to fight … you might be killed.’

‘Would you care?’ he asked softly.

‘Of course I’d care!’ Hoping she hadn’t given him any wrong ideas, she hurried on, ‘I’d care if any of the men I know got killed.’

‘I hope they don’t take too many of my men. My father used to tell me about the trouble he had last time.’

‘Adam was speaking about that at dinnertime, the most I’ve heard him say for ages. But this war’ll not last so long, surely?’

‘I sincerely hope not. The Germans are trying to prevent Britain from importing the foodstuffs we need, so pressure’s on us farmers to produce as much as we can.’

Over the next few days, Martha continued to be worried that Adam was overtaxing his strength. He was utterly exhausted when he came at night, sometimes too tired to eat, but when she told him he should be taking things easy at his age, he said sharply, ‘And let Mr Fordyce say I’m not fit for my job?’

‘I can see him dropping down dead somewhere,’ she confided to Lizann the following forenoon, ‘but will he take a telling? Not him. And it’ll be worse once they start gathering in the tatties.’

Lizann tried to comfort her. ‘He’ll ease up if he feels it’s getting too much for him.’

‘If anything happens to him … we’d be put out of this house.’

‘Nothing’s going to happen to him. Sit down and stop looking on the black side. I’ll make some tea, that’ll make you feel better.’

Ten minutes later Martha said she would dust the kitchen, seeing the floor had been swept, and Lizann went through to do the other two rooms downstairs. She, too, was worried about Adam, though she’d tried to set Martha’s mind at rest. If anything did happen to him – heaven forbid – his sister would be inconsolable, for there was a close bond between them. But surely the farmer wouldn’t put them out. He was too kind for that … yet he’d need the house for the man he engaged to replace Adam. Maybe he’d give them time to look for somewhere else, but how could they afford to live anywhere else with no breadwinner?

This was too distressing to think about, and she assured herself that she was worrying for nothing. Adam would live for years yet even if he was nearly seventy. Both beds made, she rolled up the rugs and put them under her arm. Going into the kitchen, she said, ‘I’m going to shake the mats,’ then saw that Martha was dozing, the duster in her hand.

The mats well shaken, she went back inside, and was pleased that the old woman hadn’t moved. Poor old soul, she thought, fondly, she likely hasn’t been sleeping at nights for worrying. After finishing the second room, she went up quietly to clean her own.

She had everything ready when Adam came in at twelve o’clock, his face wet with perspiration, his breathing erratic as he pulled out a chair to sit at the table. Glancing at Martha, he said, ‘You’d better waken her, Lizann, or she’ll not sleep the night.’

‘I don’t think she’d much sleep last night.’ But Lizann went over and touched the old lady’s shoulder gently. ‘Dinnertime, Martha.’ Getting no response, she tried again. ‘Come on, Martha. Your dinner’ll get cold.’

It was Adam who realized first. Struggling to his feet, he burst out, his voice hoarse with emotion, ‘She’s not sleeping!’

Lizann looked round at him and caught his alarm. ‘Martha! Martha!’ she shouted, and shook her roughly. ‘Oh, Adam, she won’t waken up.’

‘No,’ he whispered, mournfully, ‘she’ll never waken up again.’

Refusing to believe it, Lizann felt for a pulse, but there was nothing and she turned to Adam. He put his arms round her awkwardly, and they stood for some time, her tears starting his, for they had both loved Martha deeply in their own ways.

At last Lizann said softly, ‘You should sit down, Adam, you’re as white as a sheet.’

‘So are you.’ Nevertheless, he did sit down, his hands shaking so much that he hid them under the tablecloth.

Lizann stared at him with wide, sorrowful eyes. ‘We’ll have to get a doctor to …’ she whispered. ‘Has Mr Fordyce got a telephone?’

Too overcome to speak now, Adam gave a slight nod but, as she went out, his head dropped down and she could hear his deep sobs even from the foot of the garden. She ran all the way to the farmhouse, but when she asked the housekeeper to phone the doctor, the woman jumped to the wrong conclusion. ‘He didna look well last time I saw him. He shouldna be working so hard.’

‘No, no!’ Lizann gasped. ‘It’s not Adam! It’s Martha!’

‘Martha? What’s wrong wi’ her?’

‘I think she’s … dead.’

‘Dead? Oh, dearie me! Dearie me! That’s terrible!’

Meggie was so affected by this unexpected tragedy that Lizann had to remind her why she was there. ‘Please phone … right now. I don’t want to leave Adam on his own too long.’

Meggie’s hands fluttered nervously. ‘Oh, lassie, I’m nae use wi’ that contraption. I’ll have to get Mr Fordyce.’

She disappeared inside and Dan came running out in just a moment, his mouth still full. ‘Meggie says Martha’s …?’

‘Please, Mr Fordyce, will you phone and ask the doctor to come?’

He gripped her elbow. ‘Come inside. You look as if you need a seat.’

The telephone was on a small table in the hallway, and he made her sit on the chair beside it. He asked the operator for the number, and while he waited to be put through, he said, ‘Adam didn’t say she was ill.’

‘She wasn’t ill. I thought she was sleeping and …’

A reedy, metallic voice brought her to a halt, and the farmer turned his head away. ‘Dr Munro? It’s Dan Fordyce, Easter Duncairn. Could you call at my cottar houses as soon as possible? The name’s Martha Laing.’ Laying down the receiver, he looked at Lizann again. ‘He’ll come as soon as he can. Now, you were telling me, she was asleep …?’

‘I thought she was sleeping, but I couldn’t get her to waken for her dinner … and when I felt her wrist, there wasn’t a pulse.’

Trembling with delayed shock, Lizann was not aware how near she came at that moment to being taken in another man’s arms, nor how hard Dan had to fight against the urge to crush her against his chest. All she knew was that he was looking at her with a strange expression. ‘I’m sorry I’ve bothered you in the middle of your dinner,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t be silly.’ The sharpness covered his concern. ‘I had better take you back.’

Calling to Meggie not to keep his meal hot, he pulled Lizann’s arm through his and propelled her outside. ‘I’m really sorry about Martha, Lizann,’ he said, when they were on the rough track. ‘I know you thought a lot of her. And how is Adam taking it? He hasn’t been looking too good himself these past few weeks.’

‘No, he hasn’t, and he was sobbing fit to break his heart when I left him. He’ll miss her something awful … and so’ll I.’ Lizann blinked in an effort to stop a tear, but it still spilled over and she knew, by the extra pressure he put on her arm, that the farmer had seen it.

Knowing that both Lizann and Adam were too shocked, Dan promised to arrange everything. He also told Adam to take a whole week off, which he considered, if not enough time to let him get over his loss, should help him to build up his strength a little.

When at long last they were left on their own, the doctor having helped Dan to carry Martha’s body through to her bedroom, the old man and the young woman sat down at the fireside, thankful that the stir was past for the time being. After staring for a short time at the bowl of flowers Lizann had set in a corner the previous day, Adam looked across at her, tears brimming in his eyes. ‘What am I going to do without her?’

‘We’ll both miss her, but we’ll have to carry on.’

‘For as long as I’m able to carry on,’ he muttered, morosely.

‘Oh, Adam, you’re good for a lot of years yet.’

He fixed his faded eyes on the flowers again. ‘What’s going to happen to you when I …?’

‘Oh, Adam, don’t think about it.’

After a long pause, he mumbled, ‘Any road, Dan Fordyce sees fine I’m on my road out, and …’

‘He’s a good man, he won’t sack you. Look, it’s daft sitting here, we should go to bed.’

Rising, she helped him to his feet, and he grasped her hand. ‘You’ll never leave me, will you, Lizann?’

‘Never! Get some sleep, for we’ve the funeral to get through yet.’

She saw him through to his room, and in her own bed she prayed that the funeral wouldn’t be too much for him. Her thoughts turned in spite of herself to her mother. She wasn’t as old as Martha, but she had been in a far worse state of health. Was Lou attending to her properly? But it would be Jenny who was looking after her now, for she and Mick must be married by this time.

Tears coursed down Lizann’s cheeks as she remembered all the dear ones she had left behind, the dear ones she had tried so hard to banish from her memory, and when her mind touched on Peter Tait, she had to clap her hand over her mouth to stop her from sobbing aloud. She still loved him, but it was only the pure, simple love for a very close friend, a friend who had been a deep source of comfort to her more than once. If he had been here today … but his wife had put an end to all that; they could never be friends now, even if they ever met again.

She had been happier with Martha and Adam than she’d thought possible after losing George, and now it looked as if it wouldn’t be long till she was homeless and friendless again.

Work at Easter Duncairn went on as usual, the harvesting of the potato crop in October, the ploughing in November, but Dan Fordyce made sure that Adam was given only light jobs. Since Martha’s death, he had been quiet to the point of taciturnity, speaking when spoken to only if an answer was expected, and even then in as few words as he could.

As the winter drew in, Lizann grew more anxious about his health, but she knew that it was no use saying anything. All she could do was to make sure he was well wrapped up when he went out and have warm clothes ready for him when he came in. In the evenings they normally sat in silence, listening only to the news bulletins on the wireless, for Adam did not think it was fitting to be laughing at comedy shows or enjoying the big bands when they were still in mourning.

‘Martha used to like Henry Hall,’ Lizann said, tentatively, one night. ‘She wouldn’t mind us listening to him.’ But Adam shook his head, and she didn’t suggest it again.