THE ABERANNOCH CASTLE PREPARATORY SCHOOL opened not with a blaze, but more with a small glow of publicity. The Trust did not think newspaper reports too helpful to the work it was trying to do, and none of the members relished reading the names of their own lost children again in the press – once had been more than enough.
There were ‘Letters to the Editor’. Some wondered how a bunch of women could handle sixteen sturdy boys. Others applauded the Trust for hiring qualified women whose only fault in the eyes of the law was that they had chosen to marry as well as to teach. There were men on the staff, of course: a janitor, three gardeners, one of whom had committed himself to giving a gardening lesson every Thursday afternoon – weather permitting – and Sergeant Sydney Kinloch, late Black Watch. Sergeant Kinloch was to take the boys for drill: big boys Monday, Wednesday and Friday; small boys Tuesday and Thursday. For the next ten years he was to bemoan to Kirsty that if he could only get a few bigger laddies he would have a better football team, and that what so-and-so needed was a good hiding. Sometimes Kirsty felt he was right on both counts.
A football team had not been discussed when the school opened. Jamie-John was the smallest, but there were six others under eight, and only nine boys between the ages of eight and eleven. By Christmas the boys had been divided into two teams, eight-a-side, and Kirsty, Meg and Jessie would watch them from the windows as they ran shrieking up and down the lawn. Meg had relished the idea of going back to work, but Will had been adamant that he wanted his wife at home.
‘I’ll usually be here when you get back, Will,’ had been Meg’s argument.
‘It’s no’ right, a married woman working.’
‘But I help out in the shop sometimes.’
‘That’s different,’ was Will’s male logic.
‘How is it different?’
Will had cast around in his mind for an answer. ‘Women’s always worked wi’ fish.’ He heard his answer and thought for a moment as Meg waited. ‘So why no wi’ bairns, Meggie? Is that it?’
‘Aye, Will, that’s it, love.’
It had been agreed that Meg would start with the first term but if she found the work too demanding, she could resign at the end of term with proper notice to the Trust.
Meg was to take the smaller boys, who included Jamie-John. Kirsty was to take the older ones, and that was how she got a third qualified member of staff.
A few days before the proposed opening of the school, she went into Arbroath to visit the now retired Miss Purdy, to ask for her advice.
‘Keep them interested,’ had been her advice over a cup of tea, ‘and keep them busy.’
Kirsty had looked around the tiny room. ‘You must miss your family,’ she said.
Miss Purdy’s brother had died during the war, and his eldest son had established his wife and family in an already overcrowded house. Miss Purdy had been lucky to find a tiny house on a pleasant side street quite near her old home.
‘They didn’t ask me to go, you understand, Kirsty dear, but we were always too many generations in one house and my room was needed. I have most of my dear mama’s best pieces here,’ she stopped and looked rather sadly around the crowded room, ‘and I would like my eldest niece, Sarah, to have them one day. Her husband was wounded in the war, poor man, and there’s little money. I do miss the hustle and bustle of a house full of children. Although at my age, peace and quiet are nice too, but not all day, every day. Still, enough of my moans. Tell me all about this wonderful new school.’
And Kirsty had told her, and as she had talked an idea had been slowly forming in her head. Some boys had suffered incalculable trauma during the war: there would be remedial work to be done, and who was to do it? Her own programme was already as tight as possible, and Meg was to leave every evening to catch the four o’clock train. At four the boys were to have tea, and then time to play before six o’clock when they were to do homework. After homework it would be baths and bed. During the homework period Kirsty hoped to do tutorial work. What if they all need extra help? she thought now as she listened and talked to Miss Purdy and, even worse, what if some were so clever that they needed extra stretching?
‘I’ll pop in to see you again when I’m in the town,’ she said as she rose to go and Miss Purdy, who had always seemed to know exactly what was in Kirsty’s mind, said, ‘And if I can ever help with a little coaching, or even just listening to or being with a laddie – sometimes somebody to be with is all a bad laddie needs – I’d be more than glad to help out. I wouldn’t need wages: I’ve enough to manage on.’
Kirsty had gone straight from the little house to Matthew’s office. He rose from his desk when his secretary announced her with a smile of pleasure on his face. The door closed behind Miss Smith and, still holding her hand, he leaned down to brush Kirsty’s lips with his. It was the second time he had kissed her; it was pleasant, no more.
‘Matt, this is business.’
‘I honestly didn’t think my charm had brought you. Something to do with the school?’
She told him all about Miss Purdy and her years of experience with boys, both in and out of school. She did not hide how old the former teacher was.
‘It’s the evenings that worry me, Matt: just Mother and me and fifteen boys, and I have to find special time for Jamie-John.’
‘And for me, I hope, Kirsty.’ He looked at her anxiously.
Kirsty smiled at him. For two weeks Matthew had been almost as underfoot as her little boy, and almost as much of a nuisance, but it was nice to have a motor car to whip her into Arbroath or even to Dundee if something was quickly needed. They had had coffee at Lamb’s Coffee House and last night had gone to the theatre. It was when they had returned from that excursion that Matthew had kissed her. A fast worker, Matthew, she had thought, much faster even than Hugh. She had been surprised and had drawn quickly away from his arms.
‘I’m sorry,’ he had said at once, ‘but I had hoped you were no longer in mourning for your husband.’
She had looked at him steadily. Wasn’t this what Jessie wanted for her? And what did she want for herself?
‘I’m not mourning anyone, Matt,’ she had said, and they had smiled at one another as if a bargain had been sealed.
Now he smiled at her again. ‘I’ll need to inform the Trust, but if you say she doesn’t need a full salary . . .?’
‘I didn’t discuss it with her, Matt, but I think we might ask her to live in – it would be another adult – and she could sell her house or let it to her niece whom she obviously worries about. But she would be wonderful as a remedial teacher.’
Miss Purdy moved in. At first she had no official duties but, by their first Christmas, Kirsty wondered how she would ever have been able to manage without her. Meg too was devoted to her work but, come what may, she had to leave after classes so as to be with her husband. In the winter months the fishermen did line fishing near the coasts and went out in smaller boats that returned to harbour and, in Will’s case, to a loving wife, a hot bath and a meal.
‘In the summer, when he’s deep-sea fishing, I could even stay overnight occasionally, Kirsty.’
Kirsty smiled gratefully. No more talk of leaving at Christmas!
The entire Trust visited them the first term, not all together but two or three at a time, and Kirsty was able to hand over her logbooks without a qualm.
Colonel Granville-Baker looked at her appreciatively. She had blossomed, and the hand that rested in his for a moment was white and soft. Something stirred in his heart and he found himself wanting to press it. Her clothes had always been neat, but now there was a new sophistication that suited Mrs Cameron, head teacher.
‘Brave little thing,’ he thought, and watched with approval as she showed his colleagues around the converted castle.
‘It’s just possible Her Majesty might pop in when she’s in Arbroath next week, Mrs Cameron.’
‘Her Majesty the Queen?’ Kirsty almost stuttered and he smiled to see the sophistication fly away.
‘The Queen. Luckily, there isn’t time for word to get to m’wife, or you’d have Lady Sybill to entertain too and she’s much more difficult. Take it that Her Majesty will be here around five for a cup of tea and a tour. Let her see the school working. A runner will come out from Arbroath if there’s a change.’ He shook hands with her again and left her at the door to walk with his colleagues to their car.
‘Mrs Cameron’s doing a fine job, Matthew,’ he told the lawyer and almost laughed as he saw Matthew’s face light up with pride. ‘Something brewing here,’ he thought. ‘Well, why not, as long as it doesn’t affect the running of the school.’
‘Help her out on the 21st, that’s a Wednesday. Shouldn’t be a problem: private visit. Wyngate’s father will be with her.’
The Colonel might take a royal visitor in his stride but, for Jessie especially, the honour involved a great deal of work.
‘And all for less than an hour,’ she moaned to Kirsty on Wednesday evening as, with the boys lined up like a football team, they waved their royal visitor off down the driveway.
‘But what an hour, Jessie dear,’ said Miss Purdy, her flag waving as enthusiastically as any of those brandished by the children. ‘Well worth coming out of retirement for. Oh dear, a preposition at the end of a sentence. I hope none of the boys heard me!’
Kirsty laughed. Two of the boys, each almost twelve years old, had still not learned to read. Prepositions out of place would hardly worry them.
The school closed for a holiday over Christmas and New Year. The boys went to their homes; Miss Purdy returned to the room that had been lovingly kept for her in her own little house; Meg went to Will; and Kirsty, Jamie-John and Jessie were left alone without even the domestic staff. They sat in the drawing room on New Year’s Eve and savoured the peace and quiet.
‘You should have gone out to dinner with Matt, Kirsty,’ said Jessie.
‘I wanted to be here with you and Jamie-John. Remember last New Year’s Eve? We were sitting in a damp cottage – the leak’s been fixed, by the way – and I was wondering how on earth to tell you that I’d lost my job. This year we’re sitting in a castle. It’s like a fairy tale.’
‘Is there a Prince Charming?’
‘Don’t rush me, Mother. I like Matt and he’s very good with Jamie-John.’
‘Jamie-John thinks he’s wonderful,’ interrupted Jessie.
‘Jamie-John thinks his car is wonderful,’ said Kirsty drily.
‘Oh, there’s more to it than that, dear.’
‘Mother, Matt’s moving too fast. I’m only just getting into the routine of running a school, and I love it. I love every frantic minute. The Trust talked about more children, more teachers. I haven’t time for anything else just now. I like Matt: I enjoy being with him, I enjoy going out to dinner, to the theatre, but right now the school has to come first.’
‘The school won’t keep you warm on cold winter nights . . . and what of Jamie-John?’
‘It’s enough that he’s living in his father’s old home,’ answered Kirsty before she realized that her son, crawling around the carpet at her feet arranging his toy soldiers, could hear every word. She looked down at him to see that he had stopped recreating Waterloo and was looking at her very measuringly. He was only five; he couldn’t possibly understand what he had heard.
‘Come on, young man,’ she said with a smile. ‘Time to say “Goodbye” to 1921. When you wake up it will be a different year.’
‘And Matt’s coming to tea.’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Will there be sausages?’
‘Something a little more special,’ said Kirsty as she helped him put Wellington and Napoleon into their cardboard beds.
‘Sausages is special.’
‘Are special.’
‘Oh, good, you like them too, Mummy?’
He laughed and she laughed with him and led him off, after he had kissed his grandmother, to his room. Had it been Hugh’s room? The Colonel had left a great deal of the furniture with the house, and Jamie-John’s room had a carved oak single bed and a matching wardrobe, just right for the son of the house. It could, of course, have been merely a guest room for a single male guest. Surely Lady Sybill would have wanted her son’s furniture with her?
‘I’m removing cherished family antiques, Mrs Cameron,’ the Colonel had explained, ‘but we have two other homes and extra furniture is of no use to us. The Trust feels the head teacher’s quarters should reflect her importance to the school and so, if you don’t mind, I’ll leave the public rooms and some of the private ones just as they are – apart from the removal of the pieces I’ve already mentioned.’
Jessie had been overwhelmed when she saw the flat where she was to live.
‘I’ve never been close to furniture like this, Kirsty, and to live with it! Mind you,’ and she had cast a critical home economist’s eye over it, ‘the last housekeeper fairly ruined that fine wood with cheap polish. It’ll take me a while to get that build-up off, but when I’m finished, the Colonel won’t recognize it.’
‘And he won’t,’ thought Kirsty now as she closed the door softly on her already sleeping son. ‘I only hope he doesn’t change his mind and take some of the pieces away.’
The year 1922 came in, and brought snow and Matt together. To Kirsty’s relief, he behaved as no more than a family friend. He brought New Year gifts for the three of them, took Jamie-John for a furious drive around the castle policies, and then sat down to the special tea without trying to get Kirsty to himself.
‘That was excellent, Mrs Robertson,’ he said as he finished his second large piece of game pie. ‘I should have suggested that you keep it in the larder in case the Colonel calls.’
Kirsty’s heart skipped a beat.
‘The Colonel? Is he in Scotland? Why should he call? Usually the secretary of the Trust writes to me.’
‘The Colonel is shooting in Perthshire. I thought he might take the opportunity to drop in. He’ll send a telegram, I should imagine.’
But he didn’t. Two days after the New Year Kirsty looked out of the library window that faced towards the driveway and saw a long black car slowly edging its way down towards the inner keep. A small figure in a red jumper was standing on the dashboard talking animatedly to the driver, and at the same time waving his right arm forward just as the senior officer in the Charge of the Light Brigade must have done.
‘It’s done then,’ she thought, and felt her heart sigh with relief. The Colonel had visited the school several times since the day in the spring when he had hired her, but she had managed to keep Jamie-John firmly out of sight. At least now there would be no more worry. The Colonel would either challenge her about the child’s parentage or he would not. She went slowly down the stairs to meet him . . . she waited for the bell to ring, and waited, and finally opened the door. The car was just outside, the bonnet was open and Jamie-John was examining the wonders of its insides, firmly prevented from falling in by his grandfather’s tight grasp on his shorts.
The Colonel turned and smiled at her. ‘They’re all the same, aren’t they, Mrs Cameron? Anything that moves!’
‘Anything that’s dirty and noisy, Colonel,’ she answered as he set Jamie-John down and came towards her, hand outstretched.
‘Happy New Year,’ he said. ‘Do forgive me for barging in.’
‘You’re welcome, Colonel. I have already sent the end-of-term reports to the Trust secretary, but I’ll be happy to show you around and discuss them with you.’
‘No, I’ve seen the reports. Excellent. I came for something else: something that’s been on my mind for years. Ah, Mrs Robertson. Happy New Year to you! I hoped you might give me tea.’
‘We’re delighted to see you, Colonel,’ said Jessie, who had been standing at the top of the stairs beside an ancient suit of armour.
‘That not been knocked down the stairs yet?’ asked the Colonel with a laugh. ‘I’d forgotten I meant to move it: not because it means anything, but because it might be dangerous.’
‘We like him, the boys and me,’ said Jamie-John. ‘He tells us when bad people are coming.’
‘Then he must stay,’ said the Colonel and followed Jessie into the library.
There seemed to be somebody outside Kirsty’s body watching the pleasant little tea party. She could see herself, laughing and joking with Hugh’s father as he tucked into Jessie’s excellent baking and agreed to join in a hilarious card game, ‘Freddie the Fox’. He always seemed to finish up with the Fox and smiled as Jamie-John, who always won, roared with laughter.
‘He has to know,’ the voice told her. ‘But just enjoy being a family, relaxed and happy, for a few hours. Then we’ll see what he has to say. Does he want to take him away or, beneath that charm, is he furious that this child is here?’
‘I’ll see you to your car, Colonel,’ she said firmly when at last he rose to go. ‘Help Grandma tidy up, Jamie-John.’
The little boy looked mutinous but he did as he was told, and Kirsty walked down the stairs with her son’s grandfather and waited for whatever blow was to fall.
‘I have something for you, Mrs Cameron. I should have given it to you years ago, but I honestly didn’t know I had it. Couldn’t bear to examine the boy’s things, y’know.’ He felt inside his breast pocket and then handed her a leather wallet. ‘Hugh’s paybook is in there. He was using it to write to you just before . . . just before he was killed.’
His hand was still over hers and the wallet and she stood as if turned to stone. He bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
‘I’ll come again, if I may. He’s a fine chappie.’
Kirsty could say nothing; her eyes full of tears, she lifted her hand that held the wallet and put it on her cheek where he had kissed her. She stood in the gathering dark and the cold until the lights of the car had completely vanished, and then she turned and slowly walked back up the stairs towards the library. At the suit of armour she turned and went to her bedroom, where she sat for what seemed like hours on the bed and felt the tears course down her cheeks, and then at last she brushed them away and opened the wallet. The brown-stained scrap of paper was still inside the back cover.
‘Hugh’s blood,’ she thought and tenderly held it to her breast, and then at last she read the letter that had waited over five years.
‘Oh, Hugh, my darling. You did wait for me in the Dell.’
Later she rose and returned the letter to its bloody bed, then put the wallet in the drawer of her bedside table. She would not need to look at it again but, one day, Jamie-John would want to see it.
‘Kirsty, you were an age,’ Jessie exclaimed when she returned to the library. She looked warningly at the child’s bent head. ‘Is there a problem?’
Kirsty held out her arms and hugged her mother. ‘No problems at all. He knows, and it’s all going to be all right.’