That wasn’t fair to the factor, maybe, who was a decent childe and not fit to fight, but Chae was so mad he hardly knew what he said, and didn’t much care. So when he fell in with old Ellison things were no better. For Ellison’d grown fair big in the mind and the pouch, folk said he was making silver like a dung-heap sourocks; and he’d bought him a car and another piano; and he said Ow, it’s you, Charles lad! Are you home for long? and he said And I’ll bet you want back to the front line, eh? And Chae said that he’d be wrong in the betting, faith ay! Did you ever hear tell of a body of a woman that wanted a new bairn put back in her womb? And Ellison gowked and said No. And Chae said And neither have I, you gowk-eyed gomeril, and left him at that; and it was hardly a kindly remark, you would say.
But it seemed the same wherever he went in Kinraddie, except at the Mill and his father-in-law’s: every soul made money and didn’t care a damn though the War outlasted their lives; they didn’t care though the land was shaved of its timber till the whole bit place would soon be a waste with the wind a-blow over heath and heather where once the corn came green. At Cuddiestoun he came on the Munro pair, they were rearing up hundreds of chickens that year and they sold them at great bit prices to the Aberdeen hospitals. So busy they were with their incubators they’d but hardly time to take notice of him, Mistress Munro snapped and tweeted at him, still like a futret, and the creature wrinkled its long thin neb: Ah well, we’ll have to get on with our work. Fine being you and a soldier, Chae, with your holidays and all. But poor folk aye have to work. Munro himself looked shamed at that and coloured all over his ugly face, poor stock, but he’d hardly time to give Chae a dram, so anxious he was with a new brood of hens. So Chae left him fell quick, the place got on his stomach, and syne as he held through the parks he came bang on Tony, standing right mid-way the turnip-field. And his eyes were fixed on the ground and God! he might well have stood there for days by the look of him. Chae cried out to him Ay, then, Tony man, not expecting any reply, but Tony looked up and aside Ay, Chae, so the mills of God still grind?
And Chae went on, and he thought of that, a real daft-like speak he thought it at first, but further up the brae as he held by Upprums, he scratched his head, was the thing so daft? He stopped and looked back, and there, far below, was the Tony childe standing, glued to the ground. And Chae shivered in a way, and went on.
So Chae wandered his round of Kinraddie, a strange place and desolate with its crash of trees and its missing faces. And not that alone, for the folk seemed different, into their bones the War had eaten, they were money-mad or mad with grief for somebody killed or somebody wounded—like Mistress Gordon of the Upperhill, all her pride gone now because of the Jock she had loved and aye called John. But it was Jock she called him when Chae sat with her in the parlour then, and she told him the news of her blinded son in the hospital in England. He wouldn’t ever see again, it wasn’t just a nervous trouble or anything like that, he’d drawn back the bandages when she went to see him and shown her the great red holes in his head; and syne he’d laughed at her, demented like, and cried: What think you of your son now, old wife? — the son you wanted to make a name for you with his bravery in Kinraddie? Be proud, be proud, I’ll be home right soon to crawl round the parks and I’ll show these holes to every bitch in the Mearns that’s looking for a hero. He’d fair screamed the words at his mother and a nurse had come running and soothed him down, she said he didn’t know what he said, but Mistress Gordon had never a doubt about that. And she told Chae about it and wept uncovered, her braveness and her Englishness all fair gone; and when Gordon came into the room he looked different too, shrivelled up he was, he’d taken to drink, folk said.
So Chae went out across the parks to the Bridge End then and half-wished that he’d missed the Upperhill. But across the nethermost park below the larch wood he ran into young Maggie Jean, her that Andy the daftie had near mischieved, grown a gey lass, and he hardly knew her. But she knew him fine and smiled at him, blithe and open. It’s Chae Strachan! You look fine as a soldier, Chae! And please can I have a button? So he cut off a button from his tunic for her and they smiled at each other, and he went out across the fields with a lighter heart then, she was sweet as a sprig of Blawearie ’suckle.
Bridge End he found with Alec away, he’d gone selling sheep in Stonehaven. But Mistress Mutch was there and she sat and smoked at a cigarette and told him that Alec was still a fell patriot, he’d enrolled in the volunteers of Glenbervie and every other night went down to Drumlithie for drill, a sight for sore eyes, the gowks, prancing about like dogs with diarrhoea, that’s what they minded her of. And she asked Chae when the War was to end, and Chae said God only knows and she asked And you still believe in Him? And Chae was real shocked, a man might have doubts and his disbelief, you expected a woman to be different, they needed more support in the world. But now that he thought of God for himself he just couldn’t say, there was more of his Enemy over in France, that minded him now he must give the Reverend Gibbon a look up at the Manse. But Mistress Mutch said Haven’t you heard, then? Mr Gibbon’s gone, he’s a colonel-chaplain in Edinburgh now, or something like that; and he wears a right brave uniform with a black hanky across the neck of it. His father’s come down to take his place, an old bit stock that drinks German blood by the gill with his porridge, by the way he preaches.
At Pooty’s Chae knocked and knocked and got feint the answer. And folk were to tell him that wasn’t surprising, old Pooty had taken to locking himself in nowadays, he got queerer and queerer, he said every night he heard men tramping the roads in the dark, chill hours, and they crept off the roads and slithered and slipped by the hedges and fields, and he knew who they were, they were Germans, the German dead from out of the earth that had come to work ill on Scotland. And even in the daytime if you but looked quick, right sharp and sudden between the bending of a bough or the bar of a gate, you’d see a white German face, distorted still in the last red pain, haunting the Scottish fields. And that was queer fancying well you might say.
But Chae knew nothing of the business, he near knocked in the door of the little house ere he gave it up and went ben the road to Long Rob’s. And Rob saw him coming and turned off the Mill and ran to meet him; and they sat and argued the rest of the day, Rob brought out his bottle and they had a bit dram; and then Rob made them their supper and they’d another long dram, and they argued far to the wee, small hours. And Chae swore that he still believed the War would bring a good thing to the world, it would end the armies and fighting forever, the day of socialism at last would dawn, the common folk had seen what their guns could do and right soon they’d use them when once they came back.
And Rob said Havers, havers. The common folk when they aren’t sheep are swine, Chae man; you’re an exception, being a goat.
Well, it was fine enough that long arguing with Rob, but out in the dark by the side of Chae as they walked along the road together Rob cried Oh man, I’d go back with you the morn if only—and the words fair seemed to stick in his throat. And Chae asked If only what, man? and Rob said If only I wanted to be easy—easy and a liar. But I’ve never gone that gait yet and I’m damned if I’ll begin for any bit war!
And what he meant by that Chae didn’t know, he left him then and held over the moor land towards the Knapp under the rising moon. And it was there that a strange thing happened to him, maybe he’d drunk over much of Long Rob’s whisky, though his head was steady enough as a rule for thrice the amount he’d drunk. Ah well, the thing was this, that as he went over an open space of the vanished Standing Stones he saw right in front of him a halted cart; and a man had got out of the cart and knelt by the axle and looked at it. And Chae thought it some carter billy from the Netherhill taking the near cut through the moor, and steered out to go by and cried Good night, then! But there wasn’t an answer, so he looked again, and no cart was there, the shingly stones shone white and deserted under the light of the moon, the peewits were crying away in the distance. And Chae’s hackl
es fair stood up on end, for it came on him that it was no cart of the countryside he had seen, it was a thing of light wood or basket-work, battered and bent, low behind, with a pole and two ponies yoked to it; and the childe that knelt by the axle had been in strange gear, hardly clad at all, and something had flashed on his head, like a helmet maybe. And Chae stood and swore, his blood running cold, and near jumping from his skin when a pheasant started under his feet with a screech and a whirr and shot away into the dimness. And maybe it was one of the men of old time that he saw there, a Calgacus’ man from the Graupius battle when they fought the Romans up from the south; or maybe it had only been the power of Long Rob’s Glenlivet.
SO THAT WAS Chae’s round of the countryside, in a blink his leave was gone and Chae had gone with it, folk said he was still the same old Chae, he blithered still about Rich and Poor, you’d have thought the Army would have taught him better. But Chris stuck up for him, Chae was fine, not that she herself cared for the Rich and Poor, she was neither one nor the other herself. That year the crops came so thick Ewan said they must hire some help, and that they did, an oldish stock from Bervie he was, gey handless at first, John Brigson his name. But he soon got into the set of Blawearie, sleeping in the room that had once been Chris’s, and making rare friends with young Ewan, it was lucky they had him. And the harvest came fine and Chris thought it near time that another baby should come to Blawearie. They’d been careful as blithe in the thing so far, but now it was different, Ewan’d love to have another.
And one night went on and then another and she whispered to herself In the Spring I’ll tell him; and the New Year went by; and then news came up to Blawearie in a wave of gossip from all over the Howe. For the Parliament had passed the Conscription Act, that meant you’d to go out and fight whatever you said, they’d shoot you down if you didn’t. And sure as death Ewan soon had his papers sent to him, he’d to go up to Aberdeen and be there examined, he’d been excused before as a farmer childe. Long Rob got his papers on the very same day and he laughed and said Fine, I’ll like a bit jaunt.
And into Aberdeen they all went, a fair crowd of them then, all in one carriage; and the ploughmen all swore that they didn’t care a button were they taken or not; and Ewan knew right well that they wouldn’t take him, they didn’t take folk that farmed their own land; and Long Rob said nothing, just sat and smoked. So they came to Aberdeen and went to the place and sat in a long, bare room. And a soldier stood near the door of the room and cried out their names one after the other; and Long Rob sat still and smoked his pipe. So they finished at last with the ploughmen childes, the whole jing-bang were passed as soldiers. And they called Long Rob, but he just sat still and smoked his pipe, he wouldn’t stir out of his jacket, even. So there was a great bit stir at that, they danced around him and swore at him, but he blew his smoke up in their faces, calm, like a man unvexed by midges met on a summer day.
They gave up the try, they did nothing to him then, he came back to the Howe and sat down at the Mill. But next he was called to appear at Stonehaven, the Exemption Board sat there for the cases; and Rob rode down on his bicycle, smoking his pipe. So they called out his name and in he went and the chairman, a wee grocer man that worked night and day to send other folk out to fight the Germans, he asked Long Rob how he liked the idea that folk called him a coward? And Long Rob said Fine, man, fine. I’d rather any day be a coward than a corpse. And they told him he couldn’t have exemption and Long Rob lit up his pipe and said that was sad.
Home to the Mill he came again, and that night folk saw him on the round of his parks, standing and smoking and looking at his land and sky, the long rangy childe. Ewan went by fell late that evening and saw him and cried Ay, Rob! but the miller said never a word, Ewan went home to Blawearie vexed about that. But Chris said it was just that Long Rob was thinking of the morn, he’d been ordered to report to the Aberdeen barracks.
And the next day passed and all Kinraddie watched from its steadings the ingoings and outgoings of Rob at the Mill; and damn the move all the day long did he make to set out as they’d ordered him. The next day came, the policeman came with it, he rode up to the Mill on his bicycle and bided at the Mill a good two hours and syne rode out again. And folk told later that he’d spent all that time arguing and prigging at Rob to set out. But Rob said If you want me, carry me! and faith! the policeman couldn’t very well do that, angered though he was, it would look fair daft wheeling Rob along the roads on his bicycle tail. So the policeman went off to Stonehaven and out from it late in the evening there drove a gig, the policeman again, and two home-time soldiers, it needed all three to take Rob of the Mill away to the War. He wouldn’t move even then, though he made no struggle, he just sat still and smoked at his pipe, and they’d to carry him out and put him in the gig. And off they drove, that was how Long Rob went off to the War, and what happened to him next there rose this rumour and that, some said he was in jail, some said he’d given in, some said he’d escaped and was hiding in the hills; but nobody knew for sure.
AND TO CHRIS it seemed then, Chae gone, Rob gone, that their best friends were out of Kinraddie now, friends close and fine, but they had themselves, Ewan and her and young Ewan. And she held close to them both, working for them, tending them, seeing young Ewan grow straight and strong, with that slim white body of his, like his father’s, just; and it made a strange, sweet dizziness go singing in her heart as she bathed him, he stood so strong and white, she would mind that agony that had been hers at the birth of this body, it had been worth it and more. And now she wanted another bairn, Spring was coming, fast and fast, the land smelt of it, the caller sea winds came fresh with the tang that only in Spring they brought, it was nineteen-seventeen. And Chris said in her heart that in April their baby would be conceived.
So she planned and went singing those days about the kitchen of Blawearie toun, busy with this plot, she planned fresh linen and fresh clothes for herself, she grew young and wayward as before she married, and she looked at Ewan with secret eyes. And old John Brigson would cry Faith, mistress, you’re light of heart!
But Ewan said nothing, strange enough that. She knew then that something troubled him, maybe he was ill and would say nothing about it, sitting so silent at meat and after, it grew worse as the days went on. And when he looked at her no longer was the old look there, but a blank, dark one, and he’d turn his face from her slowly. She was vexed and then frightened and out in the close one morning, over the stillness of the hens’ chirawk, she heard his voice raised in cursing at Brigson, it was shameful for him to do that and not like Ewan at all to do it. Then he came back from the steading with quick stepping feet, as he passed through the kitchen Chris cried What’s wrong? He muttered back Nothing, and went up the stairs, and he took no notice of young Ewan that ran after him, bairn-like, to show him some picture in a book he had.
Chris heard him rummage in their room, and then he came down, he was fully dressed, his dark face heavy and stranger than ever, Chris stared at him Where are you going? and he snapped To Aberdeen, if you’d like to know, and off he went. He had never spoken to her like that—he was ewan, hers! … She stood at the window, dazed, looking after him, so strange she must then have looked that little Ewan ran to her, Mother, mother! and she picked him up and soothed him and the two of them stood and watched Ewan Tavendale out of sight on the bright Spring road.
It seemed to Chris he had hated her that minute when he looked at her in the kitchen, she went through the day with a twist of sickness about her heart. To old Brigson, shamed for her man, she said that Ewan had been worried with this business and that, he’d been out of his temper that morning and had gone to Aberdeen for the day. And John Brigson said cheerily Never heed, mistress. He’ll be right as rain when he’s back the night, and he helped her wash up the supper things, and they had a fine long talk. Syne off he went to tend to the beasts, and Chris grew anxious, looking at the clock, till she minded that there was a later train still, the ten o’clock train. S
o she bedded young Ewan and milked the kye, and came back to the kitchen, and waited. John Brigson had gone to his bed, Blawearie was quiet, she went out and walked down to the road to meet Ewan in the fresh-fallen dew of the night—so young the year and so sweet, she’d make it this night, the night with Ewan that she’d planned!
By Peesie’s Knapp a snipe was sounding, she stood and listened to the bird, and saw in the starlight the skeleton timbers of the great wood that once fronted the north wind there. A hare scuttled over the road, the ditches were running and trilling, hidden, filled with the waters of Spring, she smelt the turned grass of the ploughlands and shivered in the blow of the wind, Ewan was long on the road. At the turnpike bend she stopped and listened for the sound of his feet, and minded a thing out of childhood then, if you put your ear to the ground you’d hear far off steps long ere you’d hear them when standing and upright. And she laughed to herself, remembering that, and knelt on the ground, agile and fleet, as the Guthries were, and put close her ear to the road, it was cold and crumbly with little stones. She heard a flock of little sounds going home to their buchts, far and near, each sound went home, but never the sound of a footstep.
And then, Stonehaven way, a great car came flashing down through the night, its headlights leaping from brae to brae, Chris stood back and aside and she saw it go by, there were soldiers in it, one bent on the wheel, she saw the floating ends of his Glengarry bonnet, the car whirled past and was gone in the night. She stared after it, dazed and dreaming, and shivered again. Ewan must have held over the hills and was already at Blawearie, it was daft to be here, he’d be anxious about her and go out seeking her!
So she ran back to Blawearie and she got there panting. But her heart was light, she’d play a trick on Ewan, creep in on him quiet as quiet, come up behind him sudden in the kitchen and make him jump. And she padded softly across the close to the kitchen door and looked in, and the lamp stood lit on the table, and the place was quiet in its glow. She went up the stairs to their room, there was no sign of Ewan, young Ewan lay sleeping with his face in the pillow, she righted him away from that and went down to the kitchen again. She sat in a chair there, waiting, and her heart froze and froze with the fears that came up in it, she saw Ewan run over by a car in the streets, and why hadn’t they sent her a telegram? But maybe she was wrong, maybe he’d missed the last train and taken one out to Stonehaven instead and was tramping from there in the darkness now. She piled new logs on the fire and sat and waited, and the night went on, she fell fast asleep and waking found the lamp gone out, in the sky between bar and blind was a sharp, dead whiteness like the hand of a corpse. And as she stretched herself, chilled and queer, up in John Brigson’s room the alarum clock went. It was half-past five, the night had gone, and still Ewan had not come back.