DEEPER AND DEEPER as that year slipped by, Robert slipped from the life of his parish, he hadn’t bothered to vote at all, he locked himself up long hours in his room, dreaming or reading or just sitting still—alien to Chris as that Figure he dreamt he’d met in the dark of Dunnottar woods.
Nor was that meeting the only one, there were others haunting the paths of his feet, times when he’d know that Presence in his room, once in the midst of a sermon he stopped, not staring or wild, but all the kirk watched him, and he watched the door, and his eyes moved slow as though following a figure that came down the aisle; and folk turned round and stared where he stared, and saw nothing at all but the winter gleam of the cold kirk floor, and beyond that the glass of the far, stained window that looked on the tossing boughs of the trees. Chris half-rose from her seat in that silence, she saw the sweat bright on Robert’s still face. Then his eyes left the aisle and he wiped his forehead, and went on in an even voice with his sermon.
For outside these moments he was quiet and kind, with a kindness Chris hated—for it was not his. It was something borrowed from his unclean dream, not Robert at all, a mask and a pose, a kindness he followed with Fear for an urge. And a dreadful loneliness came upon Chris, and a shivering hate for that cloud he followed, that sad-faced Figure out of the past, who had led such legions of men to such ends up and down the haughs and hills of the earth. Christ? So maybe indeed He had lived, and died, a follower of clouds Himself. That Figure she minded from school-time days, and even then it had not moved her, it seemed a sad story, in mad, sad years, it was over and done: and it left her untouched. And it left her so still, it was only a dream that could alter nothing the ways of the world…. Oh, why wasn’t Robert like other ministers?—easy and pleased and hearty and glib, with no religious nonsense about them, they led hearty lives and ate well at table, and took the days as they found them come, and didn’t leave their wives to think daft thoughts, and cry here, quiet, in the dark, like a child, sometimes with the fear of a child for the dark.
But she just had to meet it: and her life was still hers. So she worked through that autumn tending the garden, till almost the earth rebelled from her touch, she thought with a smile, and welcomed the winter. New Year’s Eve came in a bluster on Segget, in snow and a breaking of sleet for sharp hours, there were spinners starving down in Old Toun John Muir told Chris as he came in on Sunday. And he said that another twenty were sacked, it was likely the second Mill would close down.
Robert heard that story as well, and listened, and said not a word, who once would have flamed into curses and anger on the cruelty of men. But now he stood up in the pulpit and preached, his text the saying of Chirst, Feed my lambs. And Chris sat and listened to the gentle voice, and shivered as though at a filthy thing. And she looked round quiet at the people he preached to—the Provost Hogg with his heavy face, John Muir, with his skeugh and his puzzled eyes, Peter Peat the tailor, red-eyed, like a rat, and the mean, close face of the publican, Melvin. What hope in appealing to them for help?—were there but a flicker he had sold his soul to that fancy and Figure for something at least. But they heeded as little the whine of his Christ as the angry threat of his Struggling God.
And that New Year’s night as she lay by Robert, in the quiet and the dark, she knew fear again, fear for the year new come to birth, for the man who lay so quiet in his sleep, beside her, turned away from her touch, low in the grate the coals were drooping, in a little red glow, she watched them sink and fade and grow grey as the dawn came dim over a world that was wrapped in white; and out in the yews the frozen rooks stirred: and down in the kitchen Else Queen did the same.
THAT YEAR BROUGHT plenty of changes to Else, before it began there were rumours about her, Ag Moultrie one morning was going by the Manse when she saw the door of the kitchen open, and out, as quiet as an ill-gettèd cat who should come stepping but that loon Alec Hogg? And he turned and gave a bit nod of his head, and Else Queen looked out and nearly saw Ag, but she dropped down smart in the lithe of a bush, and watched the two part, and was fairly ashamed—to think that the son of a man like the Provost should have taken up with a harlot, just. And the more Ag thought of it, the more she was shamed, till she just broke down and fair Roared and Grat.
Well, she passed the news on in a neighbour-like way, and folk were fair shocked, and snickered at the Provost—ay, that was a nasty smack in the face for old Hairy Hogg: had he heard the news yet? And when it came out that he hadn’t, just yet, there were half a dozen that took him the news, you yourself were nearly killed in the rush, there was never such a birn of boots needing mending, Dite Peat went in with a pair, and his brother, and Bruce the roadman, and syne Will Melvin. And old Hairy sat like a monkey and blew on how well he could sutor, and Dite Peat said Ay, and we hear you’ll be sutoring soon for a marriage. Or is it a christening? And they all took a sly bit look at the Provost; and he habbered and said What? and so he was told.
Well, he couldn’t believe that speak about Alec, the loon might be a bit of a fool and had lost his work in the Edinburgh office, the place had closed down, that wasn’t his wyte: but he wasn’t such a fool as take up with a quean that once warmed the bed for that wastrel Dalziel. And as soon as young Alec came home that day from some gardening work he had gotten outbye the Provost cried out, Come into the shop, and told him the coarse-like speak in Segget. Alec Hogg said, Well, then, there’s something in it. I like Else well and I mean to marry her. When he heard him say that old Hairy near burst, and he asked Alec Hogg did he want to bring them, respectable folk, in shame to the grave? And Alec said No, he didn’t think so, he only wanted to bring Else to tea. And the Provost said ’twould be over his dead body if he did.
When that got around folk fair took a laugh—faith, man! that would fair be a funny-like sight, Else Queen stepping over old Hairy Hogg’s corpse, and the old ape, dead or alive, you could swear, taking an upward keek as she passed. Else and Alec were watched fell close after that, and once, when they took a walk up the Kaimes, that Spring, a windy Sunday in March, and sat in the lithe to have a bit crack, there was nearly a dozen that kept on their track, and Ag Moultrie, the Roarer and Greeter of Segget, was up in the Schoolhouse watching the pair with a spy-glass she’d borrowed at racing speed. And the childes that had crept up the Kaimes to watch near froze to death, for they didn’t dare move, and Alec and Else did not a damn thing, they didn’t even kiss all the time they were there; and you well could warrant if they didn’t kiss then, it was only because they had come to a pass when neither kisses nor cuddles contented.
Well, Alec couldn’t marry, he hadn’t a meck, Else’s wages went to the keep of her bairn, Dalziel of the Meiklebogs wouldn’t pay a penny. When Else had written and asked him for that he had just smiled sly, and torn up the letter. So things might well have stood as they were but for the tink row that broke out in the house of Smithie, the whiskered old roadman of Segget.
He hardly had seemed to alter at all, except that his whiskers looked more and more still like the birns of hay he would pinch from the parks. He still bade on with his daughter and goodson, Bruce, folk said he had hell for a life, though the house was his and all the gear in it, the kye in the byres and the kirns in the creamery. But he’d come home still of an evening from work and get no friendly greeting from any, unless ’twas the kye, and only from them if he brought them their meat: otherwise, they would sulk. In his house his daughter would say, Oh, it’s you? Then clean your nasty big feet on the mat. And old Smithie would glower at her sore, but say nothing, it was years since the old bit creature broke out.
But one Saturday afternoon in April, just as old Smithie had stopped from his chapping out on the road that led to Stonehive, and had wiped his long whiskers and took a keek round, a lorry came down the road and went skeugh, and nearly went into the west-side ditch. Well, the lorry-driver swore like a tink, which wasn’t surprising, he probably was one, and cried on old Smithie to give him a shove. And he shoved, and old Smithie, they shov
ed and they heaved, and swore at the lorry, and chaved a good hour, ’twas a lorry-load of crates of whisky and beer going north to Dundon, the lorry-man told. And he said that he hoped that their guts would rot, them that would drink but a drop of the stuff.
Well, at last they got the wheel from the ditch, and the lorry-driver said he was bloody obliged. He looked at his watch and said he must go, but syne he reached back in a small bit crate. Here, I pinched two bottles of this for myself, but you try one, it’s a fine-like drink. And he said some more and syne he drove off, leaving the bottle in old Smithie’s hands.
Old Smithie took a bit keek at the thing, a fattish bit bottle of an unco-like shape; and he took off the cork and gave it a lick. That tasted as unco as the bottle looked, sugary and sweet, and old Smithie thought, Well, damn it, he surely thinks I’m a bairn, it’s a lemonade drink, this Benny Dick Tine.
So held the bottle to his mouth for a suck, and down the stuff gurgled, and old Smithie paiched, and wiped his long whiskers and curled up his nose—feuch! it was sickening; but he fairly was dry. So he drank down a half of the lemonade stuff, and corked the bottle and put it in his pouch, and got on his bike and rode home to Segget.
God knows what happened atween there and Segget, he rode through the Square at the awfullest lick, and nearly killed Melvin opposite the Arms. He was singing that his heart was in the Highlands, not here, Will Melvin sore vexed to see him like that, if the coarse old creature wanted to get drunk why couldn’t he come down and get drunk at the Arms? Will Melvin cried Hi! and louped like a goat, and Smithie cried back That’ll teach you, I hope, to bide out of my way, you whiskied old wife! Syne he wheeled round and up the East Wynd like the wind and narrowly missed running into the dyke, and swung the bike over to the other bit side, and nearly killed a lone chicken there; and vanished through Segget in a shower of stour, with Will Melvin and the angel gaping together.
Ake Ogilvie told that he saw him go by, like a Valkyr riding the wings of the storm—whatever that fool of a joiner meant. But the next thing that happened for sure was that Smithie got off at the door of his house and went in. His goodson Bruce sat canny by the fire and hardly looked up as he heard Smithie’s step. Then Smithie said Just a minute, you, the sweir swine there, and I’ll deal with you! and Bruce looked round and there was old Smithie, with a bottle upended, sucking like mad. And then he had finished and flung off his coat, the daft old tyke, and let drive at Bruce, and near knocked him head first into the dinner that was hottering slow on the swey by the fire. Well, Bruce got up, he would soon settle this, and his wife, old Smithie’s daughter, cried out Crack up his jaw—don’t spare the old tink!
But God! she nearly died at what followed. Old Smithie had fair gone mad of a sudden, he didn’t heed the bashings of Bruce, not a bit, but took him a belt in the face that near floored him, syne kicked him right coarse, and Bruce gave a groan and caught at himself, and as he doubled up old Smithie took him a clout in the face with a tacketty boot, and for weeks after that it looked more like a mess in a butcher’s shop, than a face, that thing that the childe Bruce wore. Bruce was blinded with blood, he cried Stop—I can’t see! But old Smithie had gone clean skite, what with his wrongs and the Benny Dick Tine. Oh, can’t you? Well, then, you can damn well feel! And he took Bruce and swung him out through the door, and kicked him sore in the dowp as he went, and threw a chair at him, and Bruce had enough, he ran like a hare, half-blind though he was, and the Muirs all stood next door and gaped, Mrs Muir and Tooje and Ted, all but John, he sat indoors and gleyed quiet up the lum.
The next thing the Muirs saw was Mrs Bruce herself, kicked out like her man and running like him, and syne the bairns, and syne they heard sounds inside the house like a wild beast mad. Then old Smithie started to throw out the things that belonged to his daughter and his goodson Bruce, a sewing machine and their kists and clothes, a heap in the stour outside the door. Bruce had cleared his eyes by then and come back, but old Smithie saw him and chased him away, with a bread-knife, and came back and danced on the gear, he looked like the devil himself, said Ake, who had come up to see what the row was about—if you could imagine the devil in whiskers raising worse hell than was usual in Segget.
Well, he closed the door next and after a while some folk went over and chapped at the door, but they got not a cheep, and waited for Bruce, he’d gone to the smiddy to borrow an axe. He came back with a fair-like crowd at his heels, Feet the bobby came with him as well, and just as they started in on the door Ake Ogilvie cried No, damn’t! that won’t do. And he said to Bruce Is this your house, or his? Bruce told him to mind his own mucking business, and was raising his axe to let fly at the door when Ake Ogilvie said, All right, then, all right. It’s up to you, Feet. You’re supposed to defend the law here in Segget. Here’s a man that has locked himself up in his house, and you’re standing by and aiding and abetting a burglar trying to get into the place.
That hadn’t struck folk afore, now it did, they cried, Ay, that’s right, and Bruce glared around; and Feet scratched at his head and took out his notebook. And he said to Bruce that he’d maybe best wait, he himself would call on old Smithie for a change, to open the door in the name of the Law. But all that they heard after Feet had cried that were the snores of old Smithie asleep on his bed.
He wasn’t seen in Segget till the Sunday noon, when he crawled out to give some meat to his kye. But he never left the house but he locked up the door, the Bruces got tired of trying to dodge in, they said they couldn’t bear the old brute, anyhow, him and his stink, and they flitted to Fordoun, and Bruce got a job on the railway there; and old Smithie at last had his house to himself, thanks to the lorry-man’s Benny Dick Tine.
And what all this clishmaclaver led to was Alec Hogg getting the job on the road that had once been Bruce’s, and the seat by the fire in old Smithie’s house that was Bruce’s as well. For young Alec Hogg was a skilly-like childe, right ready and swack and no longer polite, he called a graip by its given name. As for looking around for slop-basins these days, he’d have eaten tea-leaves like a damn tame rabbit, and munched them up with contentment, too. And he said to old Smithie as they mended the roads there was nothing like a damn good taste of starvation to make you take ill with ideas you’d held, he had starved down south when he lost his job, and near starved when he managed to get back to Segget, his father, the old mucker, would glunch and glare at every bit mouthful he saw his son eat—his hands had never held idleceit’s bread. He’d sneer at the table, the monkey-like mucker, And what have your fine friends, the Fashers, done for you? And it was but the truth, they had done not a thing; as for Fascism’s fancies on Scotland and Youth—well, starvation’s grip in your belly taught better. Scotland and its young could both go to hell and frizzle there in ink for all that he cared.
And old Smithie thought that a fell wice speak, and so did John Muir, and they’d sit and crack, the three of them by the side of the road, and watch the traffic go by to Dundon, the cars with gentry, the buses with folk. And John Muir would gley Ay, God, and that’s sense. I was once myself a hit troubled about things—fair Labour I was, but to hell with them all. Poor folk just live and die as they did, we all come to black flesh and a stink at the end…. And like fools we still go with the soss, bringing grave-fodder into the world. For I hear that you’re courting Else Queen, are you, Alec?
Alec reddened up a bit and said maybe he was; and John Muir said Well, and he might do worse, since women there were you’d to bed them sometime. And he asked when Else and Alec were to marry, and Alec said Christ, I haven’t an idea—we’ve no place to bide though we married to-morrow.
And ’twas then that old Smithie said Have you no? You’re a decent-like childe and I like you well. Let you and your wife come bide in with me.
ELSE CAME TO Chris and told her the news, Chris said she was glad—and I know you’ll be happy. Else tossed her head, God knows about that. There are worse folk than Alec—at least, so I hear. And as for being happy — och, nobody
is!
Chris laughed at that and said it wasn’t true, but she wondered about it in the fresh-coming Spring, maybe it was Else had the sense of the thing—not looking for happiness, madness, delight—she had left these behind in the bed of Dalziel; only looking to work and to living her life, eating and sleeping and rising each dawn, not thinking, tiring by night-time and dark—as Chris did herself in the yard of the Manse. And Chris raised her head as she thought that thought, and heard the trill of a blackbird, shrill, and saw the spirt of its wings as it flew, black sheen of beauty, across the long grass: and the ripple and stilly wave of the light, blue sunlight near on the old Manse wall. And she thought that these were the only glad things—happiness, these, if you found the key. She had lost it herself, unlonely in that, most of the world had mislaid it as well.
She minded then as she worked at that tree, an apple tree, and set smooth the earth, and reached her hands in the cling of the mould, that saying of Robert’s, long, long ago, the day he unveiled the new-hallowed Stones up by the loch on Blawearie brae—that we’d seen the sunset come on the land and this was the end of the peasants’ age. But she thought, as often, we saw more than that—the end forever of creeds and of faiths, hopes and beliefs men followed and loved: religion and God, socialism, nationalism—Clouds that sailed darkling into the night. Others might arise, but these went by, folk saw them but clouds and knew them at last, and turned to the Howe from the splendid hills—folk were doing so all over the world, she thought, back to the sheltered places and ease, to sloth or toil or the lees of lust, from the shining splendour of the cloudy hills and those hopes they had followed and believed everlasting. She herself did neither, watching, unsure: was there nothing between the Clouds and the Howe?