MR BUCHANAN HAD A MIGRAINE. Kirsty lay in her bed and listened to him stumbling around the house, bumping into furniture, crashing against doors. She heard Mrs Buchanan’s quiet voice soothing, restraining, and then a loud slap, a muffled cry. A few minutes later, the sobbing woman ran past Kirsty’s door and into her own room at the end of the corridor.
‘He hit her, the old devil,’ said an angry Kirsty into the darkness, and wondered for a second whether to get up and say something to the headmaster.
Kirsty was angry with herself. She couldn’t believe how naive she had been. She knew the cause of his migraines – oh, yes, she knew now, as everyone in the entire school seemed to have always known. Had he not left the school very shortly after the appalling row he had had with Bob Cargill had echoed around the walls of the old school? Had he not stayed in his study here in the house, correcting papers, according to the quieter than usual Dominie’s wife? Kirsty had sat down to tea almost alone with Miss McNeil; one could hardly count the withered figure who had desperately tried to play serene hostess at the head of her own dining room table.
‘Poor Mr Buchanan,’ soothed Miss McNeil, and Kirsty surprised a look of dislike on Mrs Buchanan’s face that would have stopped a more sensitive woman. ‘Mr Cargill will have to go. He has fought with Mr Buchanan every step of the way, ignored his teachings, which were all for his own good, and he was a bad influence on Miss Robertson here.’
‘I’ll get the mince,’ said Mrs Buchanan as Kirsty rushed to Bob’s defence.
‘Bob has not defied Mr Buchanan and you know it, but he’s not going to be bullied, and if he’s dismissed for telling you a few home truths I’ll write to the Board.’
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. They won’t believe you against Mr Buchanan. He has a long-established reputation as a conscientious and hard-working Dominie who gets results, from his pupils and from his pupil teachers,’ said Miss McNeil, calmly buttering bread. ‘Two of his pupil teachers won scholarships to the University of Glasgow last year, and I myself hope and expect to attend the Methodist College in Edinburgh this October. And I would look out for yourself, Miss, with your lace collars and swirling petticoats. Having Bob Cargill’s faults to correct kept the Dominie’s attention from you.’
Kirsty stared at her as she calmly helped herself to a minute serving of mince. ‘I’ll write to the Board, Miss McNeil. I have friends on it.’ Please God, let the Colonel be at home if I have to write. He would know, wouldn’t he, that she would tell only the truth. Hugh, she would write to Hugh.
‘Mince, Kirsty?’ asked Mrs Buchanan and pushed the casserole into the silence between the two young women.
In her room after the awful, interminable meal, she started letter after letter to Colonel Granville-Baker.
Dear Colonel,
We met once when my father was Dominie of Aberannoch School.
Dear Colonel,
I write to inform you of a grave miscarriage of justice.
Dear Colonel,
She tore them up. How could she write a letter in defence of Bob before she knew whether or not he was being wrongfully dismissed?
Dear Hugh,
How nice it was to meet you again before Christmas. I had been so homesick for Aberannoch . . .
Dear Hugh, Dear Hugh Dear, dear Hugh.
She could not finish the letters. The words refused to marshal themselves on the paper. But there had been a threat in Miss McNeil’s voice, and she would have to deal with that threat.
*
Now she lay in bed and listened to the Dominie’s progress around his house. Another sixteen months before she could leave this house, before she could hope to be transferred to another school.
She saw Bob next morning. He had obviously had even less sleep and was white and drawn, with dark shadows under his eyes and on his chin. For the first time in six months he looked more man than boy.
‘He’s written to the Board about what he calls my insubordination. Can you believe it? Because I yelled at his little pet.’
‘What will you do, Bob?’
‘Wait and see. They’ll summon me to a meeting, but the Dominie’ll win, Kirsty, they always do. I’ll lose my job, and then it’s me for the fishing like every other man in my family since the beginning of time. You know, I had begun to think about applying for one of those university scholarships.’
‘I know two men on the Board, Bob. Colonel Granville-Baker and the minister from my old home. I’ll write to them.’
‘I don’t want you involved, Kirsty. If they’re prepared to listen to me, maybe they’ll transfer me . . . only I transferred already from Authmithie because I needed a different experience.’
The Dominie did not come to school that day or the next. At home the house was quiet and, when asked, Mrs Buchanan would only say that the migraine was a bad one and that her husband was now resting in a darkened room.
‘He can’t bear light when he’s bad, Kirsty,’ she explained, and Kirsty looked at her and wondered at her bravery as she deluded herself. Or was pretending her husband had a headache her only way of coping with an insurmountable problem? Would it be easier for her if I were to say, ‘Mrs Buchanan, I know your husband drinks. You don’t have to pretend with me’? Maybe not. Mrs Buchanan needed her pride, her dignity. ‘I can be nicer to her,’ Kirsty resolved.
‘What a shame the Dominie isn’t well enough to enjoy this delicious fish pie,’ she said.
Mrs Buchanan gave her a small smile. ‘Do you really like it? I know I’m not a good cook. Cakes never turn out well, but I do quite well with plain cooking.’
‘This is really tasty.’
‘Thank you, dear. You never say, and Miss McNeil hardly eats enough to get the taste of her food, and my husband . . . well, some men just shovel it in, don’t they?’
Poor Mrs Buchanan. Surely her husband’s failure to appreciate her cooking was only one of her problems. No wonder she drifted around her own house like a shadow.
The next morning the Dominie appeared at breakfast. In two days he seemed to have shrunk. ‘And what have Mr Cargill and Miss Robertson here been up to in my absence?’
Kirsty stared at him woodenly.
‘I explained your forbearance to Miss Robertson, Mr Buchanan,’ said Miss McNeil.
‘There are limits to even my forbearance, Miss McNeil, as you will find, Miss Robertson. I have informed the Board of your encouragement of young Cargill – your interest in him, should I say?’
This was so unjust. How could he twist the truth so badly? Unsteadily, Kirsty got to her feet. She couldn’t say anything sitting in her chair; she felt too small and helpless. ‘You are a bad man,’ she finally managed as the bile rose in her throat.
At once the Dominie was up and around the table. ‘A bad man, am I? How dare you speak to me like that? Sit down!’
‘Sit down,’ he said again as Kirsty refused to move and then she felt his hand on her shoulder as he pushed her into her chair. ‘I have tolerated enough from you, Miss.’ He pushed his face against hers, and this time she could smell vomit and that other smell – alcohol, gin, was it? Hysteria and fear threatened to overcome her. She must not cry, must not scream, must not lose control. ‘Do you want to be thrown out in the street without a reference? You have defied me at every turn, you and young Cargill. The teaching profession, our bairns, they deserve more than the likes of you.’
‘Or you either,’ began Kirsty hotly before she could stop herself, and she stared at him aghast as his face went white and then purple with rage. He drew back his hand and slapped her hard across the face.
‘Angus.’ It was Mrs Buchanan. ‘Stop it! I won’t put up with it, I won’t. I’ll leave the house this day and never return.’
‘Go? You? What a good day that would be for this house. The woman of the house?’ He laughed, a horrible leering sound. ‘What kind of woman is it who does not welcome her own lawful husband to her bed, and then when he does manage to get himself between her legs, can’t get herself with child!’
Mrs Buchanan stared at them all for a moment, the colour ebbing and flowing in her thin cheeks, and then she turned and fled from the room. Kirsty made to follow her.
‘Get to school,’ said Miss McNeil, and she held Kirsty’s wrist so brutally that a mark could be seen for days. ‘Get to school, and not a word of this. I’ll handle everything here. Go.’
Kirsty continued to stare as the Dominie slumped back in his seat, his head hidden by his hands. ‘My head, oh dear God, my head.’
Miss McNeil bent over him solicitously. ‘There, Angus my dear, it’s all right. Let me take you to your room. You can rest there.’ She helped him to his feet, his face still hidden by his hands, then she turned again to Kirsty. ‘Get out, you stupid girl, if you want to salvage anything of your career.’
School: the children and their openness, their innocence and natural charm. Without a bite of breakfast Kirsty hurried to be with them. Their worries would wipe away the memory of that scene for a time.
‘Who’s chasing you, lassie?’ It was the janitor. ‘You’re no’ on fires this morning. It’s Mr Watson.’
Kirsty slowed down and tried to calm her breathing. ‘I . . . I had a few things to do before the lessons this morning.’
‘Fine, they’ll wait till ye warm yersel. I’ve baps still warm frae the bakery. I must hae kent I was going to have company this morning.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘There’s little in life cannae be mended efter a decent cup of tea.’
‘I’m not hungry, Mr McGillivray,’ said Kirsty, but the warmth of the fire drew her. She sat down and the janitor handed her a mug of hot sweet tea. She sipped it and looked up at him.
‘Aye, I ken you never take sugar, but it’ll dae you good.’
He said nothing, asked nothing, but handed her a hot buttered roll and, when she had eaten that, a second one, and he watched the colour return to her cheeks and the fear ebb from her eyes.
‘Miss Purdy’s an awful sensible old woman,’ he said, and left the room to attend to his morning duties.
Yes. Miss Purdy. Obviously she had expected something, or why should she have talked about finding room for Kirsty in her brother’s overflowing house? Kirsty made up her mind to tell the whole story to the infant mistress as soon as she could see her on her own. The first opportunity seemed to be playtime when the children were all outside. Cheered by the janitor’s sympathy and shared breakfast, Kirsty looked forward to the moment when she could unburden herself of her worries. Bob arrived for the pupil teachers’ lessons, and although he was pale and drawn with a faint dark line along his jaw, he smiled at her gamely. There was no chance to speak for Mr Watson began straight away with his talks on the history of education in Scotland. As a rule he would have infuriated Kirsty by sounding as if education for women was a real privilege awarded them by men, instead of a right, but her own worries were too overpowering today. What was happening in that dark house around the corner? Where was Miss McNeil?
Miss McNeil walked in at half-past eight and, ignoring her fellow students completely, went straight to the master’s desk to talk quietly to him for a minute or two. Then, still managing to avoid looking at Kirsty, she sat down at one of the desks and appeared to give her complete attention to the lecture.
She grabbed Kirsty as they were walking out to the playground to bring in the classes of children who had lined up when Mr McGillivray rang the bell.
‘I’ve had to send for a doctor,’ she whispered. ‘Nothing happened at breakfast this morning, nothing, do you understand? Mr Buchanan won’t remember and Mrs Buchanan will say nothing. I’ve seen it before. No one will back you up. Be a sensible girl and get through the next fifteen months.’
She went off, leaving Kirsty staring after her openmouthed.
‘You do intend to bring the lines in, Miss Robertson?’ It was Mr Watson.
Kirsty looked at him for a moment and then hurried out into the playground.