Tam opened the door of the cottage and sniffed the air. He took a cautious step outside, feeling the frozen ruts of the mud uneven beneath his feet. He scowled. Why hadn’t he dug potatoes from the ground yesterday, before this hard frost set in, making the salvaging of this late crop a difficult, if not impossible, task? He hesitated, but then, with a sigh of resignation, plodded to the small outhouse tacked onto the end of his cottage. If he didn’t make the effort, there would be no dinner. Lifting his fork from the two nails that held it clear of the mud floor, he swung the metal bucket off the ground and made his way with slow steps to the vegetable plot.
The familiar smell of brassicas greeted him on his arrival at the bottom of the garden. Sinking his hand deep into his trouser pocket, he retrieved an ancient, bone-handled penknife and sliced through the stem of a hearty cabbage. He wiped the knife on his trousers and paused, looking at it, his hand on the blade, before folding it into its sheath and dropping it back into the fluffy, soiled depths of his pocket. He stood a long moment, gazing unblinking down the valley side, where, below him, the burn from the village fed into the river. When his eyes began to water with the cold, he wiped the sleeve of his jacket across them, picked up the fork from its resting place against the trunk of the cherry tree and jabbed it into the ground, levering up the soil in unyielding lumps to reveal the firm creamy potatoes beneath.
When the bucket was half full, he stopped abruptly. With a swift intake of breath, he clutched his hand to his chest, his face creased with pain. He remained motionless, knowing from experience that this was the quickest way to disperse the discomfort. He should have known better than to have left the relative comfort of his house on a day such as this. After a few minutes, the tightness ebbed away like a tide on the turn. He stood a minute longer, unwilling to risk too soon a movement, his eyes turning again to a perusal of the field and the tinkling burn below his garden. At last, he bent, picked up the remaining two or three potatoes and threw them into the bucket, where they came to rest with a clang and a thud.
His walk up the slope of the grass was slower than the outward journey and by the time he reached the shed he was panting for breath. Always methodical, he hung the fork back on the nails and shut the door, picking up the bucket again and carrying it to the cottage. Neighbours would have suggested he leave the potatoes in the shed until needed. But why give the mice the opportunity of feasting on his dinner before it had even reached his plate? He stepped into the entry, wiped his feet on the rough mat and shut the door firmly against the cold.
Beneath a shelf that ran the length of the kitchen hung several pans, ancient and blackened with use. Tam unhooked one and steadied the heaviness of it with his hands. They had been his mother’s, these pans, and, for all he knew, her mother’s before that. He filled it with cold water, placed it on the wooden draining board and began to peel the potatoes. It was quiet in the cottage. The only sounds were the occasional grunt from the old man and a soft plop as another potato was added to the water.
At last he was done. He picked up the peeled potatoes and turned to lift them onto the stove when a second spasm of tightness gripped him. Letting go of the saucepan so it hit the ring with a jolt that sent water cascading over its rim and down the front of the oven, he sat down abruptly on the kitchen chair behind him. A cat put its head round the door and, strolling over, wound itself round his legs. At first, overwhelmed by the paroxysm, he took no notice of it, but as the pain once more ebbed away, he bent down and fondled the creature’s neck.
‘Come to look after your old friend in his hour of need, have you, Tabitha? Aye, at times like these, it’s good to have a woman about the house, so it is.’
The cat gave an answering purr, rubbed herself against Tam’s boots one more time and walked sedately to her bowl.
‘Oh, so it’s milk you’re wanting, is it? I didnae think it was only to show me love and affection that you were here.’
He reached for an enamel jug that stood on the table, sniffed it out of habit and, with a shaking hand, began to pour a small amount into the cat’s bowl. The milk slopped over the edge onto the lino and the cat obligingly began to lick up the spill, before starting on what was in her dish.
Tam withdrew a grimy handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow and then blew his nose loudly before putting the hanky away. He looked at the pan that he had filled.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, addressing the potatoes. ‘I’m no’ feeling like anything to eat just now. Later, perhaps.’ He shook his head sadly and smiled. ‘Must be going stupid – it’s bad enough talking to the cat!’
With an effort, he levered himself from the chair and set off towards the living room. Pausing, he reconsidered, turned and pushed open the bedroom door that was standing ajar.
‘I’ll just have a wee minute or two on my bed and then I’ll get on with cooking my dinner,’ he said to no one in particular.
Lying back, he closed his eyes, too weary even to unlace and remove his boots.
Tabitha finished her bowl of milk before following with dainty steps the direction her master had taken. Unperturbed by finding him in the spot she had so recently vacated, she jumped onto his stomach, circled twice slowly and deliberately, sat down and began to clean her whiskers.
The old man didn’t move.