The Girl with the Creel (41 page)

She glanced at him cautiously, and finding that he was tickling the dog's belly, she had a good look at him. Her first impression of him had been that he was about fifty, but he didn't look as old as that now. His ruddy face wasn't lined, and she'd noticed that his eyes were grey and had a twinkle in them as if he found something funny, but he hadn't been laughing at her. His thick hair was wavy, much the same light brown as George's had been, but neater, and he wasn't in his usual old tweeds. Was it the flannels and sports jacket that made him look younger?

When his head turned towards her again she looked away guiltily and he let out a deep, rumbling laugh. ‘Now you've had a good look at me, how old do you think I am?'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Mr Fordyce, I didn't mean to …'

‘I told you to call me Dan, and I'll be forty-four on my birthday. I suppose that is old to you?'

‘Oh no, Mr … um, Dan,' she gasped breathlessly. ‘That's not old.'

‘I'm keeping you from your walk.' He stood up and dusted down his trousers. ‘It's been nice talking to you, Lizann, and you too, Cheeky.'

Patting the collie's head, he strode back the way he had come, leaving Lizann wondering why he'd been there if he wasn't going anywhere. Maybe he'd come out for a walk because he was tired of sitting in the house … but it was none of her business. Lifting the stick Cheeky had forgotten, she flung it forward and laughed as he raced after it.

‘Did you have a nice walk?' Martha asked, when she went home.

‘Mr Fordyce was out for a walk, too, and he sat down with me for a while. He's really nice.'

‘Aye, he is that.'

‘He told me to call him Dan.' As soon as she said it, she wished that she hadn't.

‘Don't start getting ideas about him,' Martha frowned. ‘He's not the marrying kind.'

Lizann laughed at this. ‘I just said he was nice, and you think I'm after him. I loved George, Martha, and when I lost him … well, I don't want to get married ever again.'

When Lizann went up to bed, Martha said, ‘Did you hear that, Adam?'

‘Hear what?' her brother said, cautiously.

‘Mr Fordyce told her to call him Dan. What do you make of that?'

After giving it some thought, Adam snorted. ‘I'd say he was needing a bit of company, and she's the only body round here with any gumption in her. He's got more sense than let a lassie her age turn his head.'

Chapter Twenty-two

Jenny decided to wait until she had given her mother-in-law her dinner before telling her the news. She had got so frail over the past few months that the least little thing put her off eating. Carrying over a bowl of potato soup, she sat down to spoon it to the elderly woman, with a cloth ready to wipe any dribbles that ran down her chin.

‘When's Mick due hame?' Hannah asked, when the bowl was empty.

‘He just went away this morning, and he's not expecting to be back for about six months this time.' Jenny's heart was sore, for this would be the longest time they had ever been apart. ‘Now, would you like some rice pudding?'

‘If you havena put raisins in it.'

‘There's no raisins in it. I know you don't like them.'

‘A wee drop, then.'

Standing up to serve the rice, Jenny had a look in the pram to make sure her six-month-old son was coping with the bottle she'd had to put him on when her own milk dried up. Poor wee soul, his grandmother took up most of her attention … but he seemed to be thriving.

‘I'll wait a while for my cup o' tea,' Hannah remarked, when Jenny gave her the last spoonful of rice. ‘I'm full up the now.'

Having gulped her own pudding down during the feeding, Jenny laid the empty plate on the table. ‘Hannah, I've something to tell you.'

‘Something good, I hope.'

Jenny had to smile. ‘I'm having another baby … about Christmas again.'

She couldn't help recalling what Mick had said when she told him – in bed on the first night of his last leave. ‘George was supposed to be at Christmas, and all. Is it you or me that functions better in March?'

She had laughed. ‘They say a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love in the spring.'

‘Just thoughts of love, not filling your wife's belly again. Oh, I'm sorry, Jen, in more ways than one. First, I shouldn't speak men's talk to you, and second, I didn't mean us to have another baby yet. You've enough to do without that.'

‘Mick, I want you to be as glad about this baby as I am.'

‘But I've been selfish … just thinking of my own enjoyment.'

She had put her fingers over his mouth. ‘Do you think I don't enjoy it? Mick, my darling, I wouldn't mind if you put a dozen babies in my belly … as long as they weren't all there at once.'

They had both laughed … until an animal lust took hold of them, the three months of enforced separation making it all the fiercer yet all the sweeter. Remembering all the other times they'd made love before he went back to his ship, a hunger swept through Jenny, a hunger that wouldn't be assuaged until the child she was carrying had left her womb.

‘Another baby?' Hannah barked suddenly. She obviously didn't think it was good news. ‘And how d'you think you're going to look after it when you've me and wee Georgie depending on you and all?'

‘I'll manage. The thing is, Mick says he'll apply for Christmas leave, but there's no guarantee he'll get it, and Babsie's not fit to help now, but Elsie's offered to come and keep house. She says Rosie Mac'll not mind looking after Pattie and Tommy.'

‘Elsie?' There was a deep scowl on Hannah's face now. ‘Her that comes in on Thursdays?'

Jenny smiled. ‘That's right. You'll be fine with her.'

‘No, I dinna like her. There's something …' Hannah halted, fingers plucking at the rug over her knees.

Wondering why she'd taken such a dislike to Elsie – it had been going on for a long time now, like she'd a grudge against her – Jenny said curtly, ‘It'll just be till I'm on my feet again.'

Hannah's mind was already off what she was trying to remember about Elsie. ‘Folk would think I was stupid, Lizann, the way you speak to me. Your father would soon tell you.'

Jenny gave a deep sigh. ‘Nobody thinks you're stupid.'

‘When'll Mick be hame?'

‘Not for months.' Jenny didn't bother reminding her she'd asked that less than half an hour ago. She often asked the same thing a dozen times a day and took offence if it was pointed out to her. And she was always getting worse. Goodness knows what she'd be like by the time the baby arrived.

Since Dan first spoke to Lizann and Cheeky by the burn, she had made a point of never varying their route, and he put in his appearance on most nights. She had lost her initial awkwardness with him, and could talk to him freely, as he seemed to do to her. He had told her about his time at university, about Ella, his sister in Aberdeen who had let him lodge with her while he was studying, and he had drawn her out to tell him something of her earlier life. To begin with, she had limited herself to her childhood in the Yardie, but little by little she told him about how she had met George, why they'd had to wait so long until they could be married, and when Dan asked the other night why they were no longer together, how she had lost him.

Dan had placed his large, rough hand over hers then, and murmured, ‘I knew by your eyes the first time I saw you that you'd had some tragedy in your life, but I didn't dream … Oh, Lizann, I'm truly sorry.'

Recalling this one hot morning in September, she wondered what they would speak about tonight if she saw him. Should she tell him about losing the baby as well? She didn't want his pity, but if he believed that was why she'd run away from Buckie and started selling fish, it would save her having to give any other explanation. The thing was, it would make her sound as if she had no backbone, when it wasn't really what had made her flee like a coward. It had been the culmination of a whole lot of things: George being drowned, the baby, lack of money, what Elsie had accused her of doing and the threat, topped by Jenny's remark, which she had likely misunderstood – she'd been in such a state.

Her reverie was interrupted by Martha saying, ‘Here's Adam and the soup not dished up.'

Flinging his cap on to the couch when he came in, her brother took his seat at the table without a word, and she eyed him anxiously. ‘Your face is just running with sweat. You shouldn't be working in this heat.'

‘The day I stop working'll be the day they put me in my box,' he said dolefully.

‘It's not just the heat that's bothering you, though.' Martha knew her brother inside out.

‘I was minding … it's a year ago the day since war was declared.'

‘But it's not affecting us.'

‘It will. I can mind the stories the men told when they came back from the last war, the ones that came back, and some of them never got over the terrible things they'd seen.'

She could say nothing to that, and he went on, ‘It's going to be a lot worse this time, for Hitler's been preparing for war for years, the time we were hiding our heads in the sand like ostriches.'

For a few moments he seemed to be thinking, then he said, ‘I wasn't conscripted the last time, for I was a married man and coming up for forty-three, but Mr Fordyce, old Duncan, he'd to attend I don't know how many tribunals to try to keep the young men from having to go. It didn't make any odds though, for they were still taken.'

‘So he had to get other workers?' Lizann asked, finding this history lesson fascinating.

‘There was nobody to get – they were all away fighting. There was just him and me and a fourteen-year-old laddie to keep the whole place going and it was damned hard work, I can tell you. Old Duncan had to ask some of the wives to help with the harvests and they worked as well as any of us, my Peg for one.'

Remembering his wife he lapsed into silence, and was so morose when he came home for his supper that Lizann was glad to go out after the meal was over. When she saw Dan, however, he too could talk only about the war. ‘I'd love to do my bit, but I have to keep running the farm.'

‘I'm glad you won't have to fight … you might be killed.'

‘Would you care?' he asked softly.

‘Of course I'd care!' Hoping she hadn't given him any wrong ideas, she hurried on, ‘I'd care if any of the men I know got killed.'

‘I hope they don't take too many of my men. My father used to tell me about the trouble he had last time.'

‘Adam was speaking about that at dinnertime, the most I've heard him say for ages. But this war'll not last so long, surely?'

‘I sincerely hope not. The Germans are trying to prevent Britain from importing the foodstuffs we need, so pressure's on us farmers to produce as much as we can.'

Over the next few days, Martha continued to be worried that Adam was overtaxing his strength. He was utterly exhausted when he came at night, sometimes too tired to eat, but when she told him he should be taking things easy at his age, he said sharply, ‘And let Mr Fordyce say I'm not fit for my job?'

‘I can see him dropping down dead somewhere,' she confided to Lizann the following forenoon, ‘but will he take a telling? Not him. And it'll be worse once they start gathering in the tatties.'

Lizann tried to comfort her. ‘He'll ease up if he feels it's getting too much for him.'

‘If anything happens to him … we'd be put out of this house.'

‘Nothing's going to happen to him. Sit down and stop looking on the black side. I'll make some tea, that'll make you feel better.'

Ten minutes later Martha said she would dust the kitchen, seeing the floor had been swept, and Lizann went through to do the other two rooms downstairs. She, too, was worried about Adam, though she'd tried to set Martha's mind at rest. If anything did happen to him – heaven forbid – his sister would be inconsolable, for there was a close bond between them. But surely the farmer wouldn't put them out. He was too kind for that … yet he'd need the house for the man he engaged to replace Adam. Maybe he'd give them time to look for somewhere else, but how could they afford to live anywhere else with no breadwinner?

This was too distressing to think about, and she assured herself that she was worrying for nothing. Adam would live for years yet even if he was nearly seventy. Both beds made, she rolled up the rugs and put them under her arm. Going into the kitchen, she said, ‘I'm going to shake the mats,' then saw that Martha was dozing, the duster in her hand.

The mats well shaken, she went back inside, and was pleased that the old woman hadn't moved. Poor old soul, she thought, fondly, she likely hasn't been sleeping at nights for worrying. After finishing the second room, she went up quietly to clean her own.

She had everything ready when Adam came in at twelve o'clock, his face wet with perspiration, his breathing erratic as he pulled out a chair to sit at the table. Glancing at Martha, he said, ‘You'd better waken her, Lizann, or she'll not sleep the night.'

‘I don't think she'd much sleep last night.' But Lizann went over and touched the old lady's shoulder gently. ‘Dinnertime, Martha.' Getting no response, she tried again. ‘Come on, Martha. Your dinner'll get cold.'

It was Adam who realized first. Struggling to his feet, he burst out, his voice hoarse with emotion, ‘She's not sleeping!'

Lizann looked round at him and caught his alarm. ‘Martha! Martha!' she shouted, and shook her roughly. ‘Oh, Adam, she won't waken up.'

‘No,' he whispered, mournfully, ‘she'll never waken up again.'

Refusing to believe it, Lizann felt for a pulse, but there was nothing and she turned to Adam. He put his arms round her awkwardly, and they stood for some time, her tears starting his, for they had both loved Martha deeply in their own ways.