One night it was that she couldn’t touch kye, Ewan had to do the milking himself, sore puzzled and handless he was but she couldn’t help that, though next morning she laughed at herself, what was there to fear in the milking of kye? Then came the day when they drove Chae Strachan’s sheep to the buchts and the libbing of the lambs went on till it nearly drove her mad, the thin young baaing that rose an unending plaint, the folk with their pipes and knives and the blood that ran in the sunlight. All in a picture it rose to her on the sound of that baaing, and she hid in the dairy at last, the only place that shut out the sound.
But another fad, and the one that lasted the longest, was fear that all sounds would go, fear of the night when it might be so nearly still, Ewan sleeping with his head in his arm as he sometimes did, soundless, till she’d think him dead and shake him to a sleepy wakefulness; and he’d ask What’s wrong? Have I been stealing the blankets from you? and she’d say Yes, ashamed to let him know of that fear of hers.
So she found the days blithe enough then, the scraich and scratch of hens in the close, the sound of the mower that Εwan drove up and down the rigs of the hay, the mooing of the calves wild-plagued with flies, Clyde’s neighing to a passing stallion. Only night was the time to be feared, if she woke and there was that stillness; but even the quietest night if she listened hard she’d hear the wisp-wisp of the beech leaves near to the window, quietening her, comforting her, she never knew why, as though the sap that swelled in branch and twig were one with the blood that swelled the new life below her navel, that coming day in the months to be a thing she’d share with that whisperer out in the darkness.
And oh! but the time was long! She could almost have wished that she and Ewan had bedded unblessed as Mutch said they had, the baby would have been here by now and not still to come, still waiting harvest and stooking and the gathering of stooks. But it lay with her, warm and shielded, and saw with her the growth and ripening of that autumn’s corn, yellow and great, and the harvest moons that came so soon in that year, red moons a-slant and a-tilt on the rim of the earth they saw as they went to bed, you felt it another land and another world that hung there in the quietness of the sky.
One night, the mid-days of August as they sat at meat, the door burst open and in strode Chae Strachan, a paper in his hand, and was fell excited, Chris listened and didn’t, a war was on, Britain was to war with Germany. But Chris didn’t care and Ewan didn’t either, he was thinking of his coles that the weather might ruin; so Chae took himself off with his paper again, and after that, though she minded it sometimes, Chris paid no heed to the war, there were aye daft devils fighting about something or other, as Ewan had said; and God! they could fight till they were black and blue for all that he cared if only the ley field would come on a bit faster, it was near fit for cutting but the straw so short it fair broke your heart. And out he’d go in the evening light, down to the ley park and poke about there, rig to rig, as though coaxing the straw to grow and grow in the night for his delight in the morning. A bairn with a toy, Chris thought, laughing as she watched him then; and then came that movement in her body as she watched Ewan still—a mother with his child he was, the corn his as this seed of his hers, burgeoning and ripening, growing to harvest.
The corn was first. Up and down the rigs on his brave new binder, Clyde and Bess each aside the pole, rode Ewan; and the corn bent and was smitten on the fly board, and gathered up on the forking teeth and wound and bound and ejected. Up and down went the whirling arms, and fine harvest weather came then in Kinraddie, though it rained in Dee, folk said, and down in Forfar the year was wet. Park by park Ewan rode it down, Chris still could carry him a piece as he worked, but she walked slow now, careful and slow, and he’d jump from the binder and come running and meet her, and down he would sit her in the lithe of a stook while he stood and ate, his gaze as ever on the fields and sky, there was still the harvest to finish.
But finished it was, September’s end, and there came a blatter of rain next day, Chris saw the coming of the rain and the bright summer went as the stooks stood laden and tall in the fields. And Chris found herself sick, a great pain came and gripped at her breast, at her thighs, she cried Ewan! and nearly fell and he ran to her. They stared in each other’s faces, hearing the rain, and then again the pain drove through and through Chris like a heated sword, and she set her teeth and shook Ewan free, she knew the things she’d to do. It’ll maybe be a long time yet, but get Chae to drive for the doctor and nurse. He’ll bring the nurse back from Bervie, Chae.
Ewan stood and stared and his face was working, she smiled at him then though the pain of the sword was as nothing now, iron hooks were tearing in her body instead, rusty and dragging and blunt. She held up her face to be kissed and kept her teeth fast and said Hurry, though I’m fine! and syne watched him run down the road to the Knapp. Then, white, in a daze of pain, she began to walk backwards and forwards on the kitchen floor, as she knew she must do to bring on the birth quick, everything else was ready and waiting in the room upstairs. And after a while the pain waned and went, but she knew it would soon be back. So she filled her a hot-water bottle and almost ran up the stairs to put it in the bed, almost running lest the pain come midway and catch her unaware. But it held off still, she smoothed out the sheets, brought out the rubber one she’d had bought, and tied that down, firm and strong, and set the great basin on the rug by the window and wondered what else there might be. Then she saw her face in the glass, it was flushed and bright and her eyes all hot; and suddenly she thought how strange it would be if she died, like the many women who died in childbed, she felt well and strong, they had felt the same, strange to think that her face might be dead and still in another day, that face that she looked at now, it couldn’t be hers, it was still the face of a quean.
From the window she saw Ewan running back and as she reached to the foot of the stairs to meet him the pain came on her again, she had to sit down. But that was daft, it would make it last longer, she struggled to her feet and walked in the kitchen again, Ewan was in the doorway, a white blur of a face and nothing else unless she looked at him hard and hard. He kept saying Chris, go and lie down! and she opened her mouth and gasped and meant to tell him she was fine; and instead found herself swearing and swearing, terrible words she hadn’t known she knew, they were wrung from her lips as she went stumbling to and fro, better than screaming, women screamed, but she wouldn’t.
And then came relief again, the kitchen straightened and she sat down, Ewan emerged from his blur and made her tea. Something kept worrying her—what was he to have for his dinner? She couldn’t remember the thing she’d intended, and gave it up, her tormentors were near-by again. Boil your self an egg, Ewan! she gasped, and he didn’t understand, he thought it something she wanted—Boil what? And at that a frenzy of irritation came on her, Oh, boil your head if you like! and she dragged herself to her feet, the clock on the mantelshelf was expanding and contracting, its dial blurred and brightened as she stood. And then she was sure, she cried Ewan, help me up to the room, for she knew that her time had come.
What happened then she didn’t know, there came a clear patch and she found herself nude, all but a stocking, it wouldn’t come off, she sat on the bedside and tried, Ewan tried, it was so funny she giggled in spite of the pain. And when she saw Ewan’s face, it had grown to the face of an old man, now, she must lie and get him out of the room. She cried Mind the fire, Ewan, there’s no wood there, run and hack some, and when he was out of the room she could heed to herself and her agony at last; and she bit the sheets, she rolled herself tight in a ball, the pain seemed to go for a moment, maybe she had smothered the baby, she didn’t care, she couldn’t abide it, not through hours and hours and days and days, for weeks it had gone on now, she had seen the room darken and lighten and night come, tormented by Ewan and father her body, and Will was dead, they had tortured him first.
She cried Will! then and opened her eyes from an hour- long sleep. In the room was the doct
or and the nurse from Bervie, he came over to her side, old Meldrum, Well, Chris lass, how do you feel? Fine to send for us in such a stour, and here we coming tearing up to find you sleeping like a lamb! This is Mrs Ogilvie, you’ve heard of her.
Chris tried to speak, and managed, her body was a furnace, but she managed to speak, she didn’t get it clear and she tried again. And Mrs Ogilvie patted her and said Don’t bother with that. Do you feel you’re getting on fine? Dr Meldrum came back then, Well, let’s see; and Chris poised herself on the rim of a glistening cup of pain while they looked at and felt at and straightened something alien and white, it was her own body she remembered. Meldrum said Fine, fine, it shouldn’t be long, I’ll wait below, and went out and closed the door, he hated confinements. Mrs Ogilvie sat down and next minute jumped to her feet again, Don’t do that, Mrs Tavendale, don’t grip yourself up! Slacken and its easy, wish it to come, there’s a brave girl!
Chris tried: it was torment: the beast moved away from her breasts, scrabbled and tore and returned again, it wasn’t a beast, red-hot pincers were riving her apart. Riven and riven she bit at her lips, the blood on her tongue, she couldn’t bite more, she heard herself scream then, twice. And then there were feet on the stairs, the room rose and fell, hands on her everywhere, holding her, tormenting her, she cried out again, ringingly, deep, a cry that ebbed to a sigh, the cry and the sigh with which young Ewan Tavendale came into the world in the farm-house of Blawearie.
SO QUICK AS ALL that, she was lucky, folk said, bringing a birth in a forenoon, just; it was twelve when Ewan was born. Some folk, Mrs Ogilvie told, had to thresh from dawn to dusk and through another night to another day, and Chris lay and nodded and said Yes, I know, and fell fast asleep, she didn’t dream at all. And, waking, she found herself washed and dried, a new nightgown put on her and Mrs Ogilvie knitting by the side of the bed, nothing else, oh! she couldn’t have dreamt and not known it. She whispered, scared, My baby? and Mrs Ogilvie whispered Beside you, don’t crush him, and Chris turned round her head and saw then beside her a face as small as though carved from an apple, near, perfect and small, with a fluff of black hair and a blue tinge on long eyelids, and a mouth that was Ewan’s and a nose her own, and she nearly cried out Oh, my baby!
So she lay and wondered, near cried again, and put out her hand, it felt strong and quick, only heavy, and her fingers passed up and along, under its swathings, a body as small and warm as a cat’s, with a heart that beat steady and assured. And the baby opened his eyes and fluttered them at her and yawned and she saw a tongue like a little red fish in the little red mouth; and the blue-shaded eyelids went down again and young Ewan Tavendale slept.
Sweet to lie beside him in the hours that went by, sleeping herself now and then and wakening to watch him, not ugly as she’d thought he’d be, lovely and perfect. And then he moved and whimpered, unrestful, and was picked from the bed in Mrs Ogilvie’s hands, and fluttered his eyelids at her, Chris saw, and opened his mouth and weeked like a kitten. And Mrs Ogilvie said He’s hungry now, Chris found him in her arms at last, and hugged him, just once, and held him to her breast. The blind little mouth came kissing and lapping, he wailed his disappointment, his little hands clawing at her. Then his lips found her nipple, it hurt and it didn’t, it was as though he were draining the life from her body, there was nothing better than to die that way, he was hers close and closer than his father had been, closer than again could any child be. And she wondered above him and kissed his black hair, damp still from the travail of birth; and looked at the eyes that stared so unwinkingly as the hungry lips clung to her breast. So at last he was finished, then Ewan came up, he’d come while she slept before and he bent and kissed her and she cried Mind the baby! and he said By God, am I like to forget? And he wiped his forehead, poor Ewan!
IN A WEEK MRS Ogilvie was gone and Chris felt so well she was up and about, it was daft to lie wearied and feckless when she felt so fine. So down to the kitchen and the shining of the October sun she came, she and her baby, into the whisper and murmur of that war that had so excited Chae Strachan.
For it was on, not a haver only, every soul that came up to look at young Ewan began to speak of it sooner or later. Chae came and looked at young Ewan and tickled his toes and said Ay, man! And he told them they’d brought out a fine bit bairn between them, every man might yet have to fight for bairn and wife ere this war was over; and he said that the Germans had broken loose, fair devils, and were raping women and braining bairns all over Belgium, it was hell let loose. And Ewan said Who’ll win, then? and Chae said if the Germans did there’d be an end of both peace and progress forever, there wouldn’t be safety in the world again till the Prussians–and they were a kind of German, with meikle spiked helmets, awful brutes, and the very worst—were beaten back to the hell they came from. But Ewan just yawned and said Oh, to hell with them and their hell both, Chae! Are you going to the mart the morn?
For he didn’t care, Ewan; but the mart was as bad, nobody spoke of anything but war, Munro of the Cuddiestoun was there, and Mutch, they’d a fair drink in their bellies, both, and swore they’d ’list the morn were they younger, by God. That was just the drink speaking, no doubt, but the very next day the Upperhill foreman, James Leslie he was that had taken Ewan’s place, went into Aberdeen and joined in the Gordons, he was the first man to go from Kinraddie and was killed fell early. But folk thought him fair daft, showing off and looking for a holiday, just, there was no use coming to such stir as that when the war would so soon be over. For the papers all said that it would, right fierce they were, Man, some of those editors are right rough creatures, God pity the Germans if they’d their hands on them! And folk shook their heads, and agreed that the newspaper billies were ill to run counter.
But the Germans didn’t care—maybe they didn’t read the papers, said Long Rob of the Mill; they just went on with their raping of women and their gutting of bairns, till Chae Strachan came up to Blawearie one night with a paper in his hand and a blaze on his face, and he cried that he for one was off to enlist, old Sinclair could heed to the Knapp and to Kirsty. And Ewan cried after him, You’re havering, man, you don’t mean it! but Chae cried back Damn’t ay, that I do! And sure as death he did and went off, by Saturday a letter came to Peesie’s Knapp that told he had joined the North Highlanders and been sent to Perth.
So there was such speak and stir as Kinraddie hadn’t known for long, sugar was awful up in price and Chris got as much as she could from the grocer and stored it away in the barn. Then Ewan heard funny things about the sermon that the Reverend Gibbon had preached the Sunday before, and though he couldn’t bear with a kirk he broke his habit and put on his best suit and went down to the service next Sabbath. There was a fell crowd there, more than Ewan had heard of the last week’s sermon, and the place was all on edge to hear what the Reverend Gibbon would say. He looked bigger and more like a bull than ever, Ewan thought, as he mounted the pulpit, there was nothing unusual as he gave out the hymn and the prayer. But then he took a text, Ewan couldn’t mind which, about Babylon’s corruptions, they’d been right coarse there. And he said that God was sending the Germans for a curse and a plague on the world because of its sins, it had grown wicked and lustful, God’s anger was loosed as in the days of Attila. How long it would rage, to what deeps of pain their punishments would go, only God and His Anger might know. But from the chastisement by blood and fire the nations might rise anew, Scotland not the least in its ancient health and humility, to tread again the path to grace.
And just as he got there, up rose old Sinclair of the Netherhill, all the kirk watched him, and he put on his hat and he turned his back and went step-stepping slow down the aisle, he wouldn’t listen to this brute defending the German tinks and some friend that he called Attila. Hardly had he risen when Mutch rose too, syne Cuddiestoun, and they too clapped on their hats; and Ellison half made to rise but his wife pulled him down, he looked daft as a half-throttled turkey then, Ella White wasn’t to have him make h
imself a fool for any damned war they waged. But the minister turned red and then white and he stuttered when he saw folk leaving; and his sermon quietened down, he finished off early and rattled off the blessing as though it was a cursing. Outside in the kirkyard some young folk gathered to clout him in the lug as he came from the kirk, but the elders were there and they edged them away, and Mr Gibbon threaded the throngs like a futret with kittle, and made for the Manse, and padlocked the gate.
But Ewan didn’t care one way or the other, as he told to Chris. The minister might be right or be wrong with his Babylons and whores and might slobber Attila every night of the week, Blawearie had its crop all in and that was what mattered. And Chris said Yes, what a blither about a war, isn’t it, Ewan? and tickled young Ewan as he lay on her lap. And he laughed and kicked and his father sat down and looked at him, solemn, and said it was fair wonderful, Did you see him look up at me then, Chris quean?
So they were douce and safe and blithe in Blawearie though Kinraddie was unco with Chae Strachan gone. Kirsty came up on a visit and cried when she sat in the kitchen beside the crib, Chris made her tea but she wouldn’t take comfort. She said she knew well enough Chae’d never come back, he was in such a rage with the Germans he’d just run forward in his bit of the front and kill and kill till he’d fair lost himself. Chris said And they’re maybe not such bad folk as the papers make out, and at that Kirsty Strachan jumped up So, you’re another damned pro-German as well, are you? There’s over- many of your kind in Kinraddie. Chris stared clean amazed, but out Kirsty Strachan went running, still crying, and that was the last they saw of her in many a week, maybe she was ashamed of her outburst.
Whether or not she was, there could be never a doubt about the Reverend Gibbon. For the next Sabbath day, when another great crowd came down to the kirk to hear him preach, they got all the patriotism they could wish, the minister said that the Kaiser was the Antichrist, and that until this foul evil had been swept from the earth there could be neither peace nor progress again. And he gave out a hymn then, Onward, Christian Soldiers it was, and his own great bull’s voice led the singing, he had fair become a patriot and it seemed likely he thought the Germans real bad. But Long Rob of the Mill, when he heard the story, said it was a sight more likely that he thought the chance of losing his kirk and collections a damned sight worse than any German that was ever yet clecked.