The Laird of Lochandee (30 page)

‘I know, but they are only sending families who want to be evacuated this time. I'm having a mother and two young children. Their father is in the Royal Navy. I want it to look as nice and as pretty as I can make it for them. It must be awful having to leave everything behind.'

‘Yes.' Bridie remembered the reason for her visit. ‘Conan is going to the Royal Air Force.' Her voice trembled. ‘He l-leaves tomorrow.'

‘Ah, I see. He has got his papers then?' Beth nodded thoughtfully.

‘You knew!' Bridie's eyes widened. ‘You knew he had volunteered?'

‘Y-yes. I promised to go up to the farm whenever he got word to leave. Your parents will need all the help they can get. I thought it was a good time for me to start work again – try to replace him a wee bit, maybe comfort your Mother …'

‘Oh, Beth!' Bridie suddenly flung herself into Beth's arms and wept. ‘You're so good to us. You must be missing Harry terribly. War is a dreadful thing!'

‘Hey, let me put my brush down, Bridie, or you'll be having yellow streaks in your hair!'

Bridie strove for control and brushed away her tears with the back of her hand.

‘I wish Mother would let me leave school now that I'm fourteen. I could help such a lot. They say the new land girls all wear breeches and they are learning to plough and do all the things the men usually do.'

‘Aye,' Beth sighed, ‘We shall all have to learn to do things we never thought possible if this war goes on.' She frowned. ‘I just wish Harry would write and tell me where he is. I know he has been sent abroad but I don't know where. I've only had one short letter and it was forwarded on from a central office in England.'

The moment Conan had dreaded arrived. He had already arranged to leave his cycle at one of the cottages at the crossroads. Bridie had promised to get Fiona Sinclair to ride it halfway to the village after school.

‘There's no need for you to waste petrol giving me a lift in the car, Mother,' he insisted. Now that the time had come to actually leave Lochandee and all his friends and family he was half afraid he might break down himself. There was no way he could bear his mother's tears on the journey to the station.

It had been hard enough saying good-bye to Alice Beattie. She had wrung her hands over and over again in her distress. For the first time Conan realised how old and frail she had become.

‘They have made Mr Winston Churchill the Prime Minister,' her voice quavered, ‘but have they done it in time? Nothing to offer, he says, except “
blood, toil, tears and sweat
” …' She seemed so sure she would never see him again and the thought upset Conan more than he had realised. ‘May God go with you, laddie,' she had whispered huskily. He had hugged her thin shoulders and left the room swiftly before she saw the tears glinting in his own eyes. How much worse it was going to be saying good bye to his parents.

Rachel understood. She felt as though her own heart was breaking but she was not alone. Every day thousands of women must feel the same agony and she was determined to make the parting as easy for him as possible. She must be cheerful, she must hold back the tears – at least until he was out of the house.

If only Ross would let him go without making a scene. She had seen the utter shock in his face when Conan broke the news that he would be leaving today. She knew Ross had convinced himself that his only son accepted the demands of farming Lochandee. She had known better. She had sensed the preoccupation in Conan, the intensity in his eyes when there were reports of another ship sunk and lives lost, or another aircraft missing. She had known he would not be content to let the war go on without him.

So she hugged Conan tightly, promised they would all write often, and hoped he would write whenever he could. His face was pale and strained.

‘Don't come outside, Mother,' he pleaded huskily.

‘But your father …'

‘He's waiting to say – to say goodbye.'

Rachel nodded dumbly. She felt the tension in him. Then he was gone, round the corner of the house, into the yard, out of her sight. She clenched her hands tightly but she could not stand still. One final wave, a last glimpse of the child she had reared to manhood. She ran to the corner of house and stopped short seeing Conan and Ross facing each other. How alike they were – one older and broader, but handsome still, the other with the same direct gaze, the erect shoulders, square and strong, but still so slim. They were not quarrelling and she saw Conan's wavering smile before he half turned. She guessed he was holding onto his emotions with an iron will.

Rachel watched in astonishment as Ross pulled Conan into his arms in a fierce hug. She saw the tears spill from Ross's eyes – Ross who never showed emotion in front of his children or friends.

‘My son.' He had his eyes screwed tightly shut. ‘My son... I am proud of you.' Another hug. ‘God keep you safe …' Rachel did not wait for more. She could not see Conan's face, or read the words on his lips, but her heart was full. She was so thankful that the two men she loved were parting with affection and respect.

It was some minutes before she heard Ross's booted feet approaching the house. She guessed he had needed time to compose himself but as soon as she saw him she flung herself into his arms and her own pent-up emotions overflowed like a river in flood.

‘Hush, Rachel,' Ross soothed huskily, stroking her hair as though she were a child, patting her shoulder. ‘You were very brave …' He laid his cheek against the softness of her hair ‘Braver than I was, I fear,' he murmured sadly. ‘So many things I should have said. My only son, and I have let him go …never told him how dear he is …'

Rachel controlled her sobs with an effort as she heard the anguish in Ross's voice and felt him holding her tightly, his cheek against her hair, his breath soft and warm against her temple. She burrowed her arms beneath his jacket and hugged him, pressing her head against the hardness of his chest, feeling the imprint of his waistcoat buttons against her face.

‘I do love you, Ross.' Her voice was low and tremulous but he heard.

‘I know,' he murmured huskily. ‘I love you too. In fact I don't know how I could manage without you …' His arms tightened and she felt him shudder against her.

‘You will not have to. I'm not going anywhere.'

‘Thank God for that! It's only now that I truly understand how cruel this war is to all the thousands of families that are split apart … husbands and wives, parents and children …' His arms clenched. It was not like Ross to be so emotional, or at least he rarely let his feelings show. ‘Let's go upstairs …?' he whispered.

‘Now?' Rachel leaned back in his arms, staring up into his face. ‘In the middle of the day …?' She was incredulous. It was just the comfort and loving she needed to get her through the rest of the day. ‘How did you know …?' she whispered, ‘that I need you to love me?'

‘Because I need loving too …' Ross bent to unlace his boots.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of joy and sorrow for Rachel. Ross had made her feel like a young desirable girl again. Together they had found comfort, but they had more, so very much more in the exultant triumph, the ultimate fulfilment. All the tensions and arguments evaporated. They were united in their love for each other. Whatever happened in the future, so long as they had each other, surely they could endure and survive.

Just after midday Beth cycled up the road to The Glens of Lochandee.

‘I thought you might be ready for another pair of hands,' she greeted Rachel, but her smile was wan.

‘Oh Beth, we do need all the help we can get, especially now Conan has gone. But …' Rachel looked at her more closely. ‘you are looking pale and tired. Are you all right? Harry …?'

‘I'm fine. I've been working extra hard to get the cottage ready for the arrival of my evacuee family. If I only knew where Harry is. I feel here …' she clasped a hand to her heart, that he is in danger somewhere.' Her voice trembled but she pulled herself together and took a deep breath.

Chapter Thirty

T
HE NEW
G
OVERNMENT UNDER
Winston Churchill, with Clement Attlee as deputy Prime Minister, made sweeping changes. They worked for the good of the Country and made an effort to gain support from all quarters, including that of Ernest Bevin, the trade union leader, and Lord Beaverbrook, the newspaper owner. New measures gave the Government unlimited authority over every person and all property.

‘Even the banks!' Ross read in alarm. ‘I hope Mr Reid will not withdraw our loan. Even with Beth's help I don't know how we are going to manage the work with all the extra ploughing the War Agricultural Committee is demanding.'

‘We'll get through. Bridie is a great help. She keeps pestering me to let her leave school. We shall have more eggs than ever before with all the broody hens we have sitting on eggs. That's one advantage about the government controls, they guarantee to take all we can produce. Now that the eggs are collected and sent to a central packing station we know we shall be paid for them – so long as we don't surrender to the Germans.'

‘Only God will help us if it comes to that,' Ross shuddered. He reached for Rachel's hand. ‘You're a great support to me.' His gaze held hers and there was a world of love and desire in his blue eyes. He had been so gentle and attentive since Conan went away. Rachel suspected he was missing their son as much as she was, but it was wonderful to find comfort in each other, talking together, walking together – almost as they had been when they were young lovers at Windlebrae. Poor Beth didn't even have that consolation.

‘I reckon the hens should make enough money to pay the wages and everything we need in the house, or at least everything we are allowed to buy with all the rationing,' Rachel said.

‘If anyone does manage to make a profit the Government have the power to charge a hundred per cent tax now – but I suppose we are better to pay towards our own freedom than be taken over by a dictator like Hitler.'

‘We would all be slaves, if that happened, and lucky if we got enough food and a coat for our backs.'

‘Yes,' Ross sighed. ‘I should never have opposed Conan as I did. He understood what was going on better than we did. Where would the Country be without young men like him?'

It was the middle of June before Beth received the longed for letter direct from Harry and she peddled up the road to Lochandee as though she had wings, so great was her joy and relief.

‘He says he is one of the lucky ones!' she told Rachel breathlessly. ‘He does not give many details, but at least it sounds more like my Harry. He says he was rescued from Dunkirk on a little fishing boat. He was plucked from the enemy just in time. A lot of his comrades have not been so lucky.' Beth wiped tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘I'm so relieved he's safe. I just knew he was in danger. His letters never seemed to reply to any of the things I asked him, or told him. I knew mine were going to a central address somewhere and I couldn't write a proper letter when I knew some strange man might be censoring it.'

‘I expect Harry felt the same,' Rachel comforted her. ‘and I suppose there would be lots of delays. Now you can tell him how much you miss him. Does he know his cottage has been taken over by evacuees?'

‘No, not yet. I've such a lot of things to tell him. I think he will like Carol, though. She's fitting into the village very well and she keeps the cottage clean and tidy and does all the washing and ironing while I am here at Lochandee. She says keeping busy helps to take her mind off John, her husband. The wee girls are lovely …' Beth added wistfully. She bit her lip and turned away.

She had not told Harry that she had failed again, even after his last leave with all the passionate urgency of their lovemaking. Suddenly she stopped in the middle of the yard. Her hand flew to her mouth. Her monthly rhythms were always so regular. Could the anxiety over Harry have altered them? Certainly she had felt lethargic and tired, but then she had been so worried. Worry affected things, didn't it? She frowned making mental calculations, but there was no doubt she was overdue. It was only a week. It would probably all sort itself out now that her mind was easier. Even so some instinct prevented Beth from mentioning babies when she wrote a long and loving letter to Harry.

Two weeks later Beth was convinced she must be expecting a child. Her face was pale, her mind wild with worry. The child was not Harry's! However much her heart and mind willed it, she knew the baby could not be her husband's.

Another week, another letter, the same question came from Harry.

Beth knew for certain now that she was carrying Conan Maxwell's child.

That evening when Carol and her two children had settled for the night Beth sat down with her pen and writing pad at the kitchen table. She chewed her pen so hard the end came off in her mouth. She clenched her fingers.

‘Please God, help me do the right thing!' she prayed silently. She couldn't bear to hurt Harry. She loved him and he loved her. He did not deserve to be betrayed. Suddenly her mind was crystal clear. She would tell him they were expecting a baby at last. No one need ever know the child was not his. No one ever would. The secret was hers, and hers alone.

‘After so many disappointments I had to be sure before I told you …' she wrote. ‘I have not been to the doctor, but I know.'

Harry's letter came back by return. He was jubilant. He had asked for leave. He might only get twenty-four hours but he would come if he had to walk all the way.

In fact Harry got thirty-six hours leave and Beth knew beyond doubt she had done right to keep her secret. He declared himself the happiest man on earth. As she lay in his arms, satiated by love and talk she murmured,

‘You know, Harry, I can't help wondering whether Mrs Maxwell might be expecting a baby again …'

‘Mrs Maxwell!' Harry laughed. ‘She can't be! Can she? I mean she has a grown-up son. Bridie must be fourteen or fifteen …'

‘I know. But she can't be more than about thirty-eight. She's very pretty.'

‘Not as pretty as my wife.' Harry grinned and hugged her close.

‘Och, I know what you are wanting Harry Mason. But seriously, Mrs Maxwell is usually so strong and healthy. If she's not expecting a baby it must be something serious because she's sick every morning. She's been like that for at least two weeks, maybe more.'

‘Well … well. Better to be a late baby than an illness,' Harry mused. But nothing could wipe away the huge grin he had worn since he had heard their own good news.

Rachel did not believe she could be expecting another child, in spite of the passionate loving she and Ross had indulged in since Conan's departure. Common sense told her that it was possible. She had been seventeen when Conan was born. Then, as now, the awful nausea had started almost immediately.

‘You must see the doctor,' Ross urged anxiously. ‘Suppose it's something else. You were never so ill with Margaret and Bridie.'

Reluctantly, Rachel visited Doctor MacEwan. He confirmed her suspicions and advised her to take more rest.

‘Rest! Doctor there's no time to rest with the young men away at the war.'

‘I thought you had one of those machines for milking cows now at Lochandee?'

‘We do, but someone still has to put the machines on and off the cows and empty the buckets and carry the milk to the dairy. Besides there are so many other things to do besides the milking. The turnip hoeing will be starting soon and the sheep are ready to be sheared …'

‘And then it will be hay time, corn harvest, potatoes. I know, I know! There's little time between farming seasons. But for the sake of your health, especially at your age, you must try to rest. How is Mrs Beattie?'

‘Not very well. Her lips are so blue. Some days it's quite alarming.'

‘She knows her heart is not so good. She does not fear death. She seems more concerned for the future of The Glens of Lochandee, since young Conan went away.'

‘Yes,' Rachel sighed. ‘We try to reassure her. Bridie loves Lochandee as much as anyone. She pesters me to let her leave school and work as a land girl.'

‘Well if your own health is at stake you might be wise to consider her suggestion. Alternatively there's a rumour that prisoners of war are to be billeted near Lockerbie. Some of them are German and Italian men who have been resident in Britain. I believe they are to be allocated to farms under supervision. I should think you have enough land to qualify for extra help. Ask your husband to consider it.'

‘I will,' Rachel nodded thoughtfully.

‘By the way, Mrs Maxwell, my wife is hoping to get a little concert organised for the winter. Just an effort to bring some cheer to the village, you understand.'

‘Well, we could all do with that I suppose, but it will be hard to think of Christmas for families where the head of the house is away. It must be terrible for those who have lost their husbands …' And sons, Rachel added silently, thinking of Conan, praying he was safe, as she did a hundred times a day.

‘Yes indeed. If the concert raises any money my wife thought it might be used to buy gifts for the children in the parish who have lost their fathers. We have four families already. We wondered if your husband would play the fiddle. My wife's hoping to persuade Bridie to sing. She has a delightful voice. I have admired it often in church.'

‘Why, thank you, Doctor MacEwan.' Rachel flushed with pride. ‘I'm sure Ross will help. I shall leave it to Mrs MacEwan to persuade Bridie though. She has never sung in public.'

As the weeks turned to months Rachel's nausea never completely cleared as she had expected it would. She felt her cravings always seemed to be for the things which were rationed or unobtainable. Beth, on the other hand, blossomed with good health and happiness. Rachel was delighted for her, but her condition meant she too would be unable to carry out the heavier work. So Bridie got her wish to finish school at the end of the summer term.

Alice Beattie took Bridie's hand between her own two wrinkled ones and smiled warmly.

‘I'm glad you're coming home to The Glens of Lochandee – just as I did, Bridie. ‘I know how much you love it, lassie. You'll not regret it.' A few days later she wrote a letter to her lawyer, adding a codicil to her will.

Conan had made two short visits home but at the beginning of November he wrote to ask if the rations would stretch to three of his fellow airmen.

“
Mark comes from Derbyshire. He is a pilot but he was studying Accountancy at university. Recently his twin brother died when his plane was shot down over the Channel. George is from London. Their house was bombed and both of his parents were killed. If you can feed us all I'm sure a brief spell in our peaceful glens would help them.

You already know about Nick, the friend I mentioned when I wrote to Beth. He is a flight engineer, like me now. We trained together and if we both come through this awful war, we have vowed to set up a garage. We shall have to start small but some day I plan to have buses and take people for holidays. Can you believe that some of the lads have never seen a new-born lamb, or a sprig of heather, or heard the cuckoo call?

Now I must end because it's time for tea. Sunday tea is the best meal of the week – a thick slice of cold ham with pickles, and bread with a scraping of butter. At least we can see what it is we are eating. They don't mix it up with other things on Sundays
.”

There were a few more lines hoping they were all well, but Rachel's heart sank. She knew by Ross's silence that he had received a blow when Conan mentioned his dream of setting up in a garage. She guessed he had never given up hope that he would return home and take over the farm. Strangely, Alice seemed quite serene and untroubled by Conan's plans for the future.

After two postponements, Conan finally confirmed that he and his friends were to get three days leave at the beginning of December. Harry Mason and two other men from the parish were also on leave for the Saturday and Sunday. Mrs MacEwan promptly decided the concert should be brought forward by one week for the benefit of the young servicemen.

A hectic week of practices and hasty dress rehearsals ensued. No one believed the concert would be ready in time, but young women and old men joined together to put up the makeshift stage in the village hall. The two schoolteachers had drilled their pupils in a short sketch and begged or borrowed blackout materials and old clothes to improvise costumes. There was to be a clown but his identity had been kept a strict secret. It did not occur to any of the villagers that it might be a woman dressed as a clown – least of all the minister's wife.

‘We'll show that man Hitler that all the rationing and clothing coupons in the world will not crush the spirit of the folks of Lochandee village,' Mrs MacEwan declared after the final dress rehearsal.

Bridie was dreadfully nervous. The arrival of Conan and his friends made her feel even worse, they all looked so handsome in their uniforms.

‘Ah, so quiet it is,' Nick Jones reflected dreamily, staring up at the starry sky. ‘It is my own Welsh valley it brings to my thoughts tonight.'

‘But more beautiful, of course,' Conan teased and received a playful thump on the shoulder. The other two airmen were quiet. George Green was a city dweller. He had never known such peace.

‘Have you ever heard of silence keeping you awake?' he ventured. ‘I know it must sound strange, but I couldn't get to sleep last night. I thought I must have died and gone to heaven. There was no drone of aircraft, no sirens, no drunken airmen, no clash of morning milk bottles – nothing!'

‘Peace.' Mark nodded. He was missing his brother dreadfully. He could have done with half a lifetime, here in the gentle glens. Bobby would have loved it too. The two of them had spent most of their school holidays roaming the Derbyshire moors. Once they had gone to some caves with a party of older men but neither of them had liked being underground.