SATURDAY WAS DRY AND COLD, not at all like November, which was normally dreich and miserable. As usual the girls met at the little bridge over the Brothock, the place Meg called The Fit o’ the Toon.
‘A picnic, in November?’ she said, a shiver in her voice. ‘You’re daft, Kirsty. We’ll cycle out if you like, visit your father’s grave and then cycle back. My mam’s expecting us for our tea.’
They cycled slowly up through the town, talking all the way, while Kirsty gathered confidence on the ancient machine. Once out on the country road, they stopped to look back at the red sandstone bulk of the ruined abbey rising almost protectively above it.
‘It must have been beautiful before it was destroyed,’ said Kirsty. ‘I’d love to have seen it back then.’
‘But if you had been alive in those days, Kirsty, you’d probably have been a serving wench and you’d never have been a teacher.’
‘I’d never have learned to read. That must have been awful, don’t you think, Meg, never to have been able to read?’
‘Imagine, no Co-op,’ said Meg ruefully as she surveyed her very smart new boots which were perhaps designed more for the classroom than for country roads.
They turned away from the abbey and set off towards Aberannoch. Kirsty grew quieter as they approached the village, and Meg understood and was quiet in sympathy. The blacksmith was busy in his forge and he waved his hand as he saw them. The air was heavy with the smell of bread and cakes from the open bakery where two or three children were playing, drawn by the enticing smells. It was all as it had always been. Nothing had changed because John Robertson was dead and Kirsty Robertson no longer lived there.
‘I wish I had some flowers,’ said Kirsty as they dismounted at the little churchyard and went in.
Someone else had been at the grave very recently, for some long, slim branches with their dead leaves still attached lay on the mound under which John Robertson rested.
‘Beech,’ whispered Kirsty as she reached down to touch them. ‘They must have been lovely. I wonder who . . .?’
She stayed for several minutes until she became conscious of the damp forcing its way up through her boots. ‘Oh, Meg. I miss him so.’
‘Take your time,’ said Meg sympathetically, but Kirsty had turned and together they walked back along the neat little path to the beautifully wrought iron gates.
They mounted their bikes in silence and pedalled slowly up the hill away from the graveyard, towards the Schoolhouse and the castle entrance. The gates were closed against the world, the great eagles looking down broodingly, their thoughts their own.
‘It was an Englishman who bought the castle, wasn’t it?’ said Meg as they dismounted in order to push their bicycles up the hill towards Kirsty’s old home.
‘Yes, a soldier. He was always very nice but the family isn’t there much, I don’t think,’ said Kirsty. ‘They have a son called Hugh,’ she added, aware that she spoke aloud just to hear his name on her lips. ‘I met him in the town the other morning.’ She blushed furiously and turned her bicycle away from the gates, but Meg was kind enough to say nothing.
They laboured up the steep hill, but as always in nature were rewarded by the gratifying freewheel down the hill at the other side. Kirsty was in the lead and so exhilarated was she by the speed of her descent that she lifted her feet from the pedals and stuck her legs out at either side as she had done, always, as a little girl. Meg followed more sedately, just in time to see Kirsty and a huge Clydesdale swerve to avoid colliding with one another.
‘Of a’ the daftlike irresponsible . . .’ the man leading the horse began to shout, and then the anger on his young face changed to an expression of joy. ‘Kirsty,’ he said, his voice dropping to an almost loverlike tone. ‘Oh, Kirsty, you daft wee besom! Man, but it’s good to see you.’
‘Jamie.’ It was all she could say as she looked at him. Jamie: the friend of her childhood, her father’s favourite among all his pupils. Meg and the Clydesdale stood quietly while they greeted one another. Kirsty forgot Meg for a moment, so happy was she to see this sharer of childhood’s secrets, but at last she became aware of the patience of the girl and the giant beast and stopped, embarrassed.
‘Meg. This is Jamie. We went to school together, here in Aberannoch.’ Kirsty turned to Jamie again. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘Aye, it’s good to see you, and you too, Meg. You’ll have been to the grave?’
And then Kirsty knew. It was Jamie who had left the beech branches. ‘Oh, Jamie, thank you. You visit him, don’t you?’
Jamie looked behind him up the quiet winding road to the school. He ignored her question. ‘I’ll have to take Sergeant here intae the smiddy. Johnstone is waiting on him and, forbye, we’d best get aff the road. The laddie from the castle is hame and he drives yon motor car of his like a loon.’
She didn’t want him to leave, but how could she keep him? ‘You’ve grown, Jamie. Are you reading? Your father . . .?’
‘All’s well, Kirsty: am I not earning a man’s wage? I’ll tell Cissie I saw you.’
He was leading the horse away. She was aware that she might never see him again and she knew she didn’t want that to happen. He was a tie, a special link with her father and her childhood. He was Jamie.
‘Cissie’s doing well?’ she called after him.
‘Aye,’ he said, but already his face was turned towards the village. ‘She likes the new Dominie.’
Childishly that hurt. No one should like the new teacher: they should be in perpetual mourning for her father.
‘Good-looking laddie,’ said Meg eventually.
‘Oh, Meg, I’m sorry. It’s just that we were such friends, and my father thought he had a good mind . . .’
‘Is his father the farmer?’
‘No, they both work on Balcundrum Farm.’
Meg said nothing, but her disapproving silence spoke loudly enough while they continued the long push up the next hill. Eventually there was the school and the Schoolhouse and the few cottages near it. Before they came abreast of the school, Kirsty turned and began to cycle back into the village, but more sedately this time as befitted a young lady schoolteacher. They stopped at the bottom again and pushed their bicycles for a while.
‘I couldn’t bear to see the house after all, Meg.’
‘I understand.’
They cycled through the village and could see Sergeant’s large haunches as he stood in the smiddy, and at his head the slender figure of Jamie. Kirsty deliberately kept her face turned towards the road, and so she did not see him come out to the street and watch her until she had pedalled out of sight.
‘I won’t go back again, Meg,’ she said, ‘not until the spring, and just to the graveyard.’
‘Your mother will be glad to hear it’s being tended. Won’t it be lovely to see her at the New Year?’
Dear Meg. They were able to steer the conversation away from the dangerous topic of teachers and farm boys and walking out. Not that there had been a question of walking out with Jamie. He was an old friend, but the rules of her employment stated that she should never be seen in public with a man who was not her father or brother; or did it merely say that she could not be in a vehicle with a man? She had had no interest in that area of the teachers’ code, not until that awful night of the storm. Male teachers of good character were awarded one or two evenings a week for courting purposes. How female teachers ever married was a mystery. There were no married teachers at Burnside, and all the women teaching there were ancient, like Miss Purdy: married teachers, such as Kirsty’s mother, were allowed to help as sewing or cooking instructors. It must be that most dedicated teachers never married but remained in their posts, pillars of the community, until maidenly and virtuous retirement. It was a very depressing thought.
Kirsty’s spirits lifted when they reached the harbour and Meg’s cottage. At the back of her mind, nibbling away, had been the memory of Mr Buchanan’s behaviour. The visit to Aberannoch had not eased it, but perhaps she could talk to Mrs Stewart – or was she making too much of it? Sometimes it loomed large in her mind, and at other times she felt that she might have exaggerated the incident as Miss McNeil had suggested. She propped her bicycle against the door and made a decision. She would wait to see if such a thing ever happened again, and if it did she would talk to Miss Purdy. Had not Miss Purdy promised her refuge with her brother and his large, motherless family, and why should she do such a thing if there was no cause for concern? All was not well in the Buchanan household and at least some members of staff suspected it.
Her mind at last at rest and a course of sensible action decided upon, Kirsty gave herself up to enjoying the Stewarts and especially Mrs Stewart’s cooking.
‘Sam and me’ll walk you back with our Meg, Kirsty lass,’ said Mrs Stewart as Kirsty at last rose to go. It was so warm and friendly at the Stewarts. There were no undercurrents in the house, that was filled with noise and laughter and light. That was what was wrong at the Buchanan’s: no lights streamed from laughter-filled rooms.
*
The term went on and Kirsty continued to attend night classes at Keptie School. She became more and more friendly with Bob Cargill and with Miss Purdy, the senior teacher with whom she spent most of her teaching time. In the evenings after tea she would go straight to her room: there was studying to do, there were lessons to prepare and, in the exciting run down to the end of the year, presents to make. She avoided the Buchanans and Miss McNeil as much as possible.
In the middle of December, Bob was caught in a storm on his way to school and, having spent the entire day in wet clothes, developed a terrible cold.
Miss Purdy took the pupil teachers for their lessons in the morning. ‘Since Mr Cargill is to be off for the rest of the week at the very least, you’ll need to take his place with the senior class, Kirsty,’ she said. ‘It will be excellent experience. You can’t spend all your practice time with the babies.’
‘No, Miss Purdy,’ answered Kirsty, but her heart sank into her fur-lined little boots. She would have dreaded the senior classes at any time, but the teacher was the Dominie, and the longer she had stayed with Miss Purdy and her infants, the more she had hoped to avoid Mr Buchanan.
When the bell rang she went outside to bring the class in. They were lined up like soldiers in the playground, and not for the first time was she struck by the difference between the Burnside School and Aberannoch, where the children had milled around like calves in a field until the appearance of the headmaster. Mr Buchanan was waiting for them in the classroom.
‘Ah, Miss Robertson. Well, we must be very good today, boys and girls, and not frighten away our pupil teacher.’ He smiled at the children and they shuffled nervously and a few sniggered. ‘Perhaps you’d like to correct the homework exercises, Miss Robertson, while I mark the register and hear the reading.’
Thankfully, Kirsty walked around the class collecting the exercises. She could sit quietly for a while absorbing the feelings of the class. The homework exercise was a bill, and since the Dominie didn’t give her the figures or the answer she was absorbed for a while going through the papers to find six with the same figures so that she could work out the correct answers. The work was of a relatively high standard. Her father would have approved of the neatness of presentation and the accuracy. Most of the twenty-eight exercises were correct; one, however, had not even been attempted, and two had errors in multiplication. ‘193 apples at 3 ½d each’. Expensive apples, but it was obvious that two of the children had no idea of the wonders of the three times table or how to deal with halfpennies.
‘Have you found Mary McDougall’s bill yet, Miss Robertson?’ The Dominie interrupted her corrections. ‘Ah, that tear-soaked mess in your hand looks the very one. Bring it here if you would be so kind.’
Kirsty looked at Mary McDougall, whose halting attempts at reading had disturbed her concentration. There was a terrible inevitability on Mary’s bovine face, and fear together with patient acceptance.
Mr Buchanan held the bill by one end as if not to contaminate his fingers. ‘193 apples at 3½d each. £107, says Miss McDougall.’ Some children giggled but most were quiet. ‘Miss McDougall plans to marry a rich man to throw his money away on apples for her children. 18 eggs at ¾d each; ₁⁄₉d, says Miss McDougall. Well, that was closer than the apples, was it not, boys and girls?’ Mr Buchanan turned to Kirsty. ‘You would not believe the time I have spent trying to teach this young lady her tables, Miss Robertson.’ His voice was quiet and sad. ‘She refuses to learn, don’t you, Mary McDougall,’ and his voice rose almost to a scream. Kirsty jumped. It had been so unexpected. ‘What would you do with a obstinate lassie who refuses to do as she is told, Miss Robertson?’
Kirsty was as white as Mary McDougall. What could she say or do? She had no idea whether Mary would not learn or whether, as was more likely, she could not learn. She said nothing, but looked down at the corrected exercises in her hand. Mary had moved from her bench to the Dominie’s desk – this was obviously a morning ritual. Why did she even bother to come to school if this was her reception? Mr Buchanan had taken the ugly leather tawse from his desk. Nothing was said. Some children watched avidly but most turned away. Mary held out her hand, her lips trembling and her rather vacant eyes filling with unshed tears. She made no sound as the leather strap crashed down on her hand with all the force of a large man behind it.
‘As stupid as a cow,’ said Mr Buchanan.
‘Then why hit her for it?’ thought Kirsty.
The awful morning went on, the only sounds the scraping of nibs and smothered sobs from poor Mary. No one was more relieved than the pupil teacher when the bell for the morning interval sounded. She had gone about her work as the Dominie had bid her, desperately trying to prevent the vomit from rising in her throat. She stayed outside in the damp air until the cold forced her into the teachers’ room for a hot cup of tea.
Miss Purdy met her. ‘A good morning, Kirsty?’
‘Different.’
‘Aye, we all have our methods, lass. He gets good results – they’re well taught.’
‘They’re scared.’
‘Careful, Kirsty.’ Miss Purdy looked round as if to see who was within hearing. ‘Have some tea, you look chilled. It’s a big room for such a wee stove.’
‘There were only twenty-eight children in this morning.’
‘They tend to drift away as they get older, Kirsty, and forbye, the weather’s been so awful, half of them will have chilblains or colds.’
*
Mary McDougall was not at school the next morning, and Kirsty never saw her in school again. She was near to leaving age and her parents applied for, and were given, permission for her to leave because she was needed at home. Mrs McDougall already had four children under school age and another was on the way. Kirsty felt sure that poor Mary had eagerly welcomed the news of the impending arrival, even if her mother had not. Bob stayed off for the rest of the week and Kirsty remained with the senior class and observed the headmaster. He did teach well, she was forced to admit, on the days when he taught at all and did not leave it to her. Mr Buchanan was subject to migraine headaches and often stayed in his darkened office all day. Once or twice, since the beginning of term, he had been forced to remain in bed at home. On those days it had seemed to Kirsty that even the very walls of the old school seemed to breathe more easily and, in his classroom, she could see a tremendous difference in the attitudes of the children. Luckily Mr Cost, the assistant head teacher, took his class on those days, for Kirsty knew she could not have handled the children. With Bob back, Kirsty was delighted to return to the infants, who were busily making the unbelievable mess that they called ‘a present for Mam’.
And then it was the last day of term. The weather was kind in that there was no snow, and Kirsty set off on the long journey to her uncle’s farm. To her surprise she had a gaily wrapped parcel from Miss Purdy as well as the gift she had been expecting from Meg, and the two bright boxes sat on top of her overflowing bag and cheered her up as she waited at cold stations or rattled at an amazing speed across the Ayrshire countryside.