Stewart lifted the tray. ‘I’ll bring it up myself,’ he offered.
Helen tried to hide her disdain. Imagine having breakfast at ten-thirty in the morning! Lord, the day was half over.
‘There’s no’ enough there to keep body and soul together,’ she remarked. ‘A good plate o’ porridge is what she’s needing. You too,’ she reminded Stewart, disappointed once again that coffee and toast had been all the breakfast he’d required.
Stewart laid the tray back down on the table. ‘Helen …’ he began.
‘Aye?’
‘I was wondering … before we leave, if you might be able to talk to Marjorie. About your experience, so to speak.’
‘Experience?’
Stewart sat, the tray forgotten. He passed a hand across his forehead, his face flushed with embarrassment.
‘I’m not sure how these things work, you know.’
‘What things?’ Helen was mystified.
‘Women’s things … Miscarriages.’
Helen walked towards the kitchen door, closing it firmly. If Marjorie Cunningham was to interrupt her again, she’d at least have to open the door.
Helen sat. ‘Stewart, just because we’ve both suffered miscarriages doesn’t mean we can talk about it. Surely you remember yir wife’s reaction when you last broached the subject?’
‘I know,’ Stewart agreed. ‘But she has nobody else to confide in, Helen. None of her friends have … suffered. And she won’t talk to me.’
‘How hard have you tried?’
Stewart shook his head. ‘I have tried. But she pushes me away. I can hardly bear it.’
Helen’s heart went out to him. ‘You really do love her, don’t you?’
‘So very much,’ he replied, his voice filled with anguish. ‘She’s a truly decent sort, Helen. You’ve just seen the worst of her, I’m afraid. You have no idea how much fun she is … was.’
Helen bit her lip. She could no more imagine Marjorie Cunningham having fun than she could imagine a man on the moon. It was unthinkable.
‘Stewart, can you no’ see that I’d be the last person on earth she would talk to about this?’
‘No! I can’t,’ he said forlornly. ‘It was my whole reason for booking this trip, Helen. I thought if anyone could talk to her, you could. You’ve been like a mother to me. I want Marjorie to feel the same way – and you about her.’
Helen looked away from him. If she lived to be a hundred, she could never look upon Marjorie as a daughter.
‘I’ll do my best,’ she murmured. ‘But I doubt it’ll be good enough.’
‘Thank you.’ Stewart raised his head to look at her. ‘I knew I could depend on you.’
Helen smiled back at him. The years fell away, and he was once more just a little motherless boy, pouring his heart out at her kitchen table. She stood and walked towards him, ruffling his hair as he leaned into her, his arm around her waist, his head resting on her ample bosom.
A soft knock on the kitchen door made them both start.
Helen rushed to open it, gasping at the sight before her.
Hattie was standing there, arm-in-arm with a balding, middle-aged stranger.
‘This is Kenneth More,’ she said proudly.
Hattie stabbed at the fire, glad of the warmth it spread throughout the small room. She reached for the old fireguard and set it on the hearth. It was time to prepare for bed. Every light blazed, illuminating the windows and the blanket of snow which had fallen ceaselessly since early that morning.
She didn’t register the sound of somebody tapping on the door, thinking it was just the cracking of the coals. Then it became more insistent and she moved towards the window, trying to peer into the darkness to determine the identity of this late visitor. The snow was thick, and the night dark.
Hattie pushed herself away from the window and crossed the short distance to the door. Holding her ear against the solid thickness of the wood she called out, ‘Is that you, Mr Macrae?’
A stranger’s voice came back to her. ‘I’m Kenneth. Kenneth More. I’m stuck in the snow.’
Hattie unlocked the door, and opened it the tiniest fraction. A flurry of snowflakes swept into the room and she closed it back. ‘I’m not allowed to let anyone in,’ she said.
‘Could you please tell me where the nearest phone is, then?’
Hattie opened the door wide. ‘It’s in here,’ she answered, pointing to the sideboard.
The man stood huddled in the doorway, without even an overcoat to protect him from the storm. He gaped at her for a moment before setting a hesitant foot across the threshold.
‘Is it all right? For me to come in?’
Hattie looked confused. ‘I need to shut the door. The snow’s making the floor wet.’
Kenneth entered the small room, backing against the wall to avoid getting close to this strange woman. ‘Is there a garage close by?’ he asked.
Hattie nodded. ‘There’s Mackay’s in Craigourie.’
‘Craigourie? I’ve just come from there. I was heading west.’
‘There’s no’ one west of here. Not till you get past Dunfearn.’
The man looked exhausted, and thoroughly dejected.
‘I’ll try the one in Craigourie. I have to be on the road tonight.’
‘It’s closed,’ Hattie said, removing the fireguard to allow the heat to permeate the room. ‘D’you want to sit down?’
‘I … No, thank you. Is there anyone here who could help me? I don’t have a spade, and I’ll need to dig the car out. It’s about quarter of a mile back down the road.’
‘Murdo’ll have a spade.’
‘Murdo? Your husband?’
‘Oh, no,’ Hattie replied, her face covered in embarrassment. ‘Murdo lives in the big house.’ She lifted her face to the stranger. ‘You’re shivering. You must be starved wi’ the cold. It’s not good for you.’
Kenneth inched closer to the fireplace. ‘How can I get hold of this Murdo?’
Hattie shook her head, a worried expression on her face. ‘He’ll be in his bed by now. I wouldn’t want to wake him.’
Kenneth looked close to tears. ‘Is there anyone who can help me? I’m just hopeless when things like this happen. Mother was right. I’ll never make it through life without her.’
Hattie stared at him. ‘Sit yirself at the fire. I’ll get you a cup o’ cocoa.’
Kenneth sat, shivering still. Great pools of snow had melted at his feet, and Hattie brought a cloth from under the sink to mop up the mess. ‘You’d better take that jacket off. I’ll put it over the fireguard. It’ll be dry in no time,’ she said.
Like an obedient child, Kenneth removed the jacket, displaying a rather large belly covered by a sodden white shirt.
‘You’d better give me yir shirt too,’ Helen said.
‘Oh no. I … I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be proper.’
‘OK.’
Hattie put some milk on to heat. ‘I was just going to have my own cocoa. There’s Horlicks if you like that better.’
‘Cocoa would be lovely,’ Kenneth answered. ‘It’s what Mother used to make.’
‘Two sugars?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘It’s what I have myself. Why doesn’t she make it any more?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Yir mother. Why doesn’t she make cocoa any more?’
Kenneth looked seriously flustered. ‘Well, she’s … she died.’
‘So did mine.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kenneth murmured. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t quite got used to being on my own yet. Mother always took care of everything.’
‘Mrs Cunningham looked after me,’ Hattie said, pouring the hot milk over the cocoa. ‘She gave me the lecktric.’
Kenneth appeared not to have heard. ‘This is my first real job since … since she died, and I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it much longer.’
‘Why not?’ Hattie handed Kenneth his cocoa, and sat down in the chair opposite.
Kenneth took a sip of the hot drink, his hands cradling the cup. Hattie watched as waves of steam rose from his wet shirt. The steam smelled moochy, and it crossed her mind that his shirt wasn’t all that clean.
Kenneth sighed again, looking more crestfallen by the minute. ‘I have six vacuum cleaners to sell by Monday, and I spent the whole day in Craigourie and only sold one.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s just … selling. It’s not what I’m cut out for. They’re wonderful cleaners, they really are. They’re a completely revolutionary design, with a full range of tools and attachments, and they represent the best investment the housewife can make for the smooth and efficient running of the modern home. Twenty-nine shillings is a small price to pay for such a miracle of engineering, don’t you think?’
Hattie listened in awe. ‘Twenty-nine shillings? For a Hoover? That’s no’ a small price. It’s an awful lot o’ money’
‘You’re right,’ Kenneth said. ‘I can’t do it. I just can’t.’
He drank some more of the cocoa. ‘Mother would understand. She wouldn’t expect it of me, you see. She was always prepared to be disappointed.’ He smiled wanly. ‘She said she’d be disappointed if she wasn’t disappointed, if you understand.’
Hattie shook her head, obviously not understanding. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She took a stroke. I had to nurse her for a very long time, but I thought … she gave me the impression … that there would be something left.’
‘What?’
‘Money. I … was led to believe there would be enough for my small needs.’ Kenneth stared dolefully into the fire. ‘There was nothing. Nothing at all. All that time, she was using the money she had to keep me with her, to keep us together, don’t you see?’
‘My mother kept us together, too. I wasn’t allowed to leave her.’
‘Oh, forgive me,’ Kenneth apologised. ‘Here I am prattling on … Is your bereavement recent?’
‘Breevment?’
‘Your mother, did she die recently?’
Hattie shook her head again. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘It was a long time ago. I can’t really remember…’
‘I’m sorry, I’m distressing you. She must have been quite young.’
Hattie shrugged, and stared into her cup. ‘They said I murdered her.’
What remained of Kenneth’s cocoa shot up in the air and landed all over him.
‘Yir clarted!’ Hattie stated.
‘Oh dear! Oh, dear, dear, dear.’ Kenneth wiped at the offending stain, spreading it even further. He stooped to place his cup on the hearth, then reached for his jacket.
‘I’ll … I’ll go now. Thank you. Thank you so much.’
Hattie looked up at him, her face miserable. ‘I didn’t murder her. It was an accident.’
Kenneth slumped back in the chair, his head low on his chest.
‘You’ve been very kind to me. I’m sure it was … just as you say – a dreadful accident.’ He raised his head. ‘I should try to get help. I can’t impose on you any longer, Miss…?’
‘Hattie. I’m Hattie.’
‘I should go now, Hattie.’
‘Yir shirt’s an awful mess.’
‘I don’t care. I’m just about the end of my tether. Can you understand?’
‘Course.’
‘I loved my mother, Hattie. But she was very cruel.’
Hattie nodded.
‘I can’t imagine why I’m telling you this.’
‘Sometimes, you just know about people,’ Hattie offered, her grey eyes as soft as the falling snow.
Kenneth rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t ever remember feeling so tired. I’m really awfully tired.’
Hattie took his hand. ‘You can sleep in my bed. I’ll wash out yir shirt.’
‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Kenneth responded, but his protest was weak.
‘Aye, you can. It’s a nice bed.’ She led him into the narrow bedroom. ‘Put yir shirt through the door. It’ll be done by the time you wake.’
Kenneth reached for the light-switch, but Hattie covered it with her hand. ‘No! You must leave the light on.’
‘Why?’ he asked.
Hattie moved closer, shielding the fixture with her body.
‘I don’t like the dark.’
Kenneth sighed, weary to his very bones. ‘Did she keep you in the dark?’
‘They asked me in the court. They were all dressed in wigs and cloaks, but I wasn’t frightened any more. My mother always told me that the darkness was waiting for me. “It’s waiting for you, Hattie Macaskill” she’d say – before she would put me in the cupboard. This one man kept asking me and asking me. Was I so bad that I had to be locked up in the dark? Did my mother have to do that just to keep me quiet?
‘I told them the truth, Mr More. I told them, the dark’s not quiet. It’s very loud.’
Kenneth More reached out for her, clasping her hands in his own. ‘My poor, dear lady.’
Hattie smiled. ‘Och, I’m no’ a lady. I’m just the cleaner.’
Kenneth did not relinquish his hold. ‘You are indeed a lady. And it’s been a kind star which led me to your door tonight.’
Hattie blushed. ‘Just throw yir shirt through the door.’
Hours later, banking the fire for the last time that night, Hattie rose. She tiptoed into the bedroom and knelt by the bed, inspecting every visible inch of her stranger. He lay curled on his side, a wispy fringe of grey hair encircling his bald head. His face was plump and smooth, and slightly flushed.
Tentatively, Hattie stroked the hair into place. How handsome he was. She moved closer, feeling his breath on her face. Gently, gently she kissed him, awed at the softness of his lips on hers.
So this was how it felt. There had been no need to shut her in the darkness for fear of this. There was nothing here to be ashamed of. No terror burned in her. No demons reached to pull her into their infernal depths.
A rush of happiness spread through her, and again she kissed him.
Kenneth opened his eyes, immediately aware of her, his earlier tiredness and confusion gone. ‘I’ve never kissed a woman before,’ he whispered.
Hattie did not draw back. ‘Me neither,’ she said shyly. ‘A man, I mean.’
‘May I kiss you again?’
Hattie nodded.
Their lovemaking was awkward, the bed too narrow to contain them comfortably. Yet they were tender, and careful of the other, exploring together this new and cherished freedom, a freedom of which they had scarcely dreamed.
As the night sky cleared to reveal its star-sequinned mantle, Hattie Macaskill and Kenneth More found each other. And in the finding came the knowledge that love was not reserved for a select few but was, indeed, available to all.
Together, they scurried hand-in-hand along the road, relieved to see that a thaw had already begun. Shrubbery dropped heavy parcels of snow at every step, and the prints of a nocturnal creature spread wetly outwards on the path before them.
Hattie pointed it out, glad that the creature’s tracks had disappeared into the undergrowth.
‘It’s safe now,’ she said.
Kenneth grabbed a handful of snow from atop a drystone dyke, and rubbed it across Hattie’s face. She gurgled with delight, saturated with the powdery wetness – and the simple joy of it.
As they approached the stranded Morris Traveller, Kenneth laughed with relief. The bank of snow into which the car had slid had all but disappeared. He climbed in, praying the engine would turn.
It did.
‘You’re my lucky charm, Hattie,’ he said.
She stood there, her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her worn tweed coat.
‘You’ll be coming back for me?’
Kenneth leaped from the car, holding her close and kissing her soundly.
‘I will. I’ll need some time, though … to get things sorted out. I want everything to be right when I come back, Hattie. But I will be back.’
‘By Easter.’
‘You’ll be back by Easter?’
Kenneth lifted her chin. ‘As soon as I can. As soon as I’m in a position … to ask for your hand.’
Hattie took her hand from her pocket, inspecting it gravely.
‘My hand?’
Kenneth frowned. ‘In marriage.’
She reached to kiss him again. ‘I knew that,’ she laughed, and with a wave of a brown woollen mitt, she ran back towards the cottage.
Pulling off her coat, she rushed to warm her hands at the fire which still glowed cheerfully in the grate. She peered at the calendar above the mantelpiece. Kenneth would be back by Easter.
It wasn’t that long to wait.
She had got confused. As time passed, she’d realised that. She’d misunderstood, had got it wrong somehow.
But she’d always believed he would come back. She’d always known that.
And here he was.
Helen stared at them both, stunned. Then she turned to stare at Stewart, but he just sat there, his fair eyebrows all but disappearing into his hairline.
Kenneth held out his hand. ‘Mrs Macrae, it’s my privilege to meet you at last.’
‘You’re not the actor!’ Helen said, mindlessly returning the handshake. ‘You’re not Kenneth More.’
‘Oh, madam, I am indeed. I’m just not that Kenneth More.’ He turned a fond glance in Hattie’s direction. ‘What have you been telling them, my love?’
‘My love!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘God help us.’
She retreated, reaching behind her for the support of the table. Finally she sat down, wiping her forehead with a corner of her apron.
‘Would you mind explaining…?’
‘I must begin by apologising,’ Kenneth said. He led Hattie forward, ushering her into the adjoining chair and stopping to shake hands with Stewart. ‘It’s taken rather longer than I had hoped to return to Drumdarg, though its distance from Arbroath was not the reason.’
Helen waved a hand. ‘You’d better sit yirself down. I’ll be wanting to know the whole story.’
Kenneth sat, reaching across the table to take Hattie’s hand.
And then he began.
He had tried valiantly, but in vain, to sell his vacuum cleaners. There had followed a succession of ‘inappropriate’ positions, and he came to realise that he must first learn to take care of himself, before he could entertain the thought of providing for his wife.
Hattie’s face was a picture. ‘That’s me,’ she said.
He had delayed contacting Hattie, believing that she deserved so much more than he was able to offer. But each day he strove harder, in the hope that somebody, somewhere might offer him the opportunity which would allow him to return to her – financially secure and, most importantly, ‘capable’.
As door after door closed before him, he had been smitten with a bout of depression which laid him low for ‘rather a long time’, and he had been forced to enter a nursing home – a wonderful place with landscaped gardens and the kindest, most caring staff who ever drew breath.
After his recovery, ‘quite complete, may I add’, he had made it clear that he would greatly enjoy tending the gardens – the one thing in his life at which he had always been, ‘if I say so myself’, rather good.
He had worked there for a trial period of six months, and the position was confirmed as permanent at the end of February. ‘With the most wonderful serendipity’ he had, that same week, been informed that he had finally made it to the top of the council’s waiting list. He had received the keys to a small but beautifully appointed flat, and had moved from his lodgings at once.
He now felt that everything was suitably in order, and would appreciate it if Helen might indicate to whom he might address his request for Hattie’s hand in marriage – Mr Cunningham or Mr Macrae?
Helen turned to Stewart. The two exchanged glances, and Stewart lifted his shoulders helplessly. Then Helen brought her eyes back to Hattie. The lassie was positively glowing.
‘You already have her hand, I’m thinking,’ Helen said. ‘You’re no’ needing permission from anyone here.’