The Shadow of the Sycamores (14 page)

‘Aye, she seemed nice enough and Father was a lot better humoured and all. If that’s what married life does for a man, I’m glad I’m joining the club.’

‘You? Are you thinking on taking a wife?’

‘I am that. It’s the druggist’s daughter. Mind, I told you how good they were to me when I hurt my thumb?’

‘That’s a blessing, then, for in-laws can sometimes be a real problem.’

‘Her father wasn’t too happy about us at first but he came round.’ He did not tell her what Joseph Leslie was also doing in case she thought he was boasting. ‘Um, Abby, Max says the minister’ll need to see my birth certificate afore he can marry us. Would you happen to ken where Gramma kept it?’

‘It’ll be in the same place as mine was – that old wooden box in the bottom of the dresser. I didn’t notice yours but it’s bound to be there. We’ll have a fly cup first, then I’ll look it out for you.’

About fifteen minutes later, Henry watched his sister taking a beautifully polished mahogany box from one of the cupboards in the old pine dresser, its top shelves crammed with bric-a-brac. ‘Gramma kept the birth certificates in it and marriages and deaths and any other important papers. Look, here’s mine right on top in a blue envelope.’

Abby went through the contents carefully, coming eventually to an identical envelope almost at the bottom. ‘This must be it,’ she smiled, handing it over.

Henry drew out the old document, unfolding it and smoothing it on the table in front of him. Then he exclaimed, ‘This isn’t mine! It’s for somebody called Tchouki.’

Puzzled, Abby took it from him again. ‘Who on earth …? I never heard Gramma speaking about a Tchouki. Maybe she had a baby that died …’ She drew in a quick breath. ‘Oh, no! It
is
yours. Listen to this. Tchouki Henry McIntyre Bruce Rae – Father, William, blacksmith – Mother, Isabella, maiden name McIntyre.’

He practically tore it out of her hand and scanned it in disbelief – but there it was, in black and white, in beautifully formed copperplate handwriting. ‘Henry McIntyre was Gramma’s man, wasn’t he?’ he ventured for the sake of something to say.

‘That’s right. I don’t know when he died … but his death certificate will likely be in that box as well.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Henry mumbled, putting his hand over hers to stop her from standing up to find it.

‘I suppose no’. And Bruce was Gramma’s name before she married him so that explains that. But Tchouki …?’ Abby sighed, her brow crinkling in puzzlement. ‘I’ve never heard the name before but it looks foreign to me.’

Max’s warning coming back to him, it dawned on Henry that his friend must know something about the strange name so he folded up the document he wished he had never seen and put it in his jacket pocket. Unfortunately, other people would have to see it if he married the girl he loved.

‘Don’t worry, Henry,’ Abby soothed as if she knew what he was thinking. ‘The minister’s the only person who needs to know and he wouldn’t tell.’

This did nothing to comfort her brother. Max already knew something about it and, if he knew, somebody must have told him and how many somebodies had been told before that? It could have been going on since the day he was born. The whole
of Ardbirtle could have been laughing at him for years for all he knew. Too upset to discuss it further, he said, ‘I’m going back now, Abby. Tell Pogie I’m sorry I missed him but …’

As he had hoped, Abby knew exactly what he was feeling. ‘Aye, off you go, but you’ll come and tell me if you find out …’

She, too, left her sentence unfinished and her brother gave her a quick pat on the shoulder as he went out.

Henry had originally intended making a detour to Drymill on his way back but he could not face Fay and especially not her father until he had sorted things out in his mind, until he had found out exactly who he was.

At The Sycamores, he left the bicycle in the shed where it was kept and made straight for Max’s room. Most uncharacteristically, his friend asked no questions of him but he himself wanted to discuss what he had learned. ‘Max,’ he began, uncertainly, ‘do you know the first name on my birth certificate?’

‘I know it’s not Henry and it’s foreign. Russian, she tell’t me.’

An icy clamp squeezed Henry’s heart. ‘She? Who told you?’

‘It was a few year back and I gave Mrs Gow a hand to carry the tatties she’d bought off Jemsie Milne’s cart, for the road was awful slippy. Well,’ he went on quickly, noticing Henry’s frown of impatience, ‘she took me in for a drop tea to warm me up and we got speaking and, after a wee while, she asked if I was still friends wi’ you. I said I hadna seen you for a good while and she said, “That poor laddie. I wonder if he kens.” So, of course, I asked what she meant.’

‘But what did she tell you?’ Henry snapped. ‘That’s what I want to find out.’

‘She said her man – he was the Session Clerk in the kirk, mind? – well, just afore he died, he’d been raving a bit, rambling, and she couldna make sense o’ it until she picked up the name Bella McIntyre.’

‘That was my mother’s single name.’ Henry whispered, wondering, with a sinking of his stomach, what she had done to make John Gow speak about her on his deathbed.

‘Then he’d said he could hardly believe she’d been taking up wi’ a Russky and her such a nice lassie. He’d nearly courted her himsel’ at one time.’

Every part of him ice cold, even the tips of his toes, Henry swallowed hard. ‘Go on. What else did she tell you?’

‘It seems Willie Rae had had a good drink in him when he registered your birth and he gave the Russky’s name first, then he came back and tried to get it changed. He hadna been wanting folk to ken you werena his, I suppose. But, as Mrs Gow said, it’s a crime to change a certificate like that, so her man just added on the other names Willie wanted and naebody ever ken’t you were really half Russian.’

‘And now it’ll all have to come out.’ White faced, Henry got to his feet unsteadily.

‘Are you all right?’ Max enquired, his friend’s dazed expression, his sagging body, making him fear for him. ‘I think you’d best bide wi’ me till you … I’m sure Mrs Gow has never said a word to onybody else.’

‘I’ve got to think. I’ve a lot of thinking to do … by myself.’

He was relieved that Max let him go – otherwise he might have broken down in front of him. In his own room, spartan like all the others at The Sycamores, he stretched out on the bed, taking only his boots off because he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep. As Max had pointed out, he wasn’t who he thought he was. Instead of being truly Scottish, he was a crossbreed – and he’d had no idea of it. His father, of course, would never have told him – not when it meant admitting that his wife had been unfaithful to him. God, it must have been awful for him.

Brooding over what the man had gone through at that time, it dawned on Henry that his father had probably not been the cause of his mother’s death. She must have been a loose woman, letting all and sundry take her, and maybe she had done away with the other bairns, his half-sisters, so her misdeeds wouldn’t come to light. She could even have ended her own life for the same reason. To think he had blamed his father all those years when it was the woman he’d always thought of as an ill-treated saint who had been the villain – villainess? – of the piece.

His mind jumped now to how this news would affect him. As Abby had said, the minister who performed the wedding ceremony would definitely not pass on any information but there were others to consider. What about Joseph Leslie? It would be the perfect lever for him. He would forbid the marriage altogether – even if his wife and daughter could overlook this awful revelation.

Oh, dear God! How could he tell Fay? No, no, he could never tell her – it was too shameful. If Max was to be believed, nobody knew except Mrs Gow and him and it had better stay that way. He had better tell Fay that … What? That there would be no wedding? She would want to know why and what could he tell he then? It would break her heart if he said he didn’t love her any more and it would tear him apart but it was the only way.

The night hours dragged on into daylight, the three cockerels started their dawn cacophony and Henry Rae rubbed his sleep-drugged eyes and peeled himself off the bed. There were jobs to be done and there were over twelve hours to go before he could drag himself to Drymill to tell Fay.

Even before she returned from her three-day honeymoon, Janet Ledingham was again having doubts about the legality of the marriage – the two barriers had been cleared far too easily. This, in turn, gave rise to renewed suspicions that Innes had been responsible for at least one of the deaths. Her mother had been old and feeble and, although it was so unexpected, it was just possible that she had died from natural causes. His first wife, on the other hand, had been much younger and he had never mentioned her having any sort of illness. Surely he would have suggested something if he had been planning to do away with her?

But how
could
he have done away with her? He had never left The Sycamores for more than a few hours at any time – long enough to go to Aberdeen to carry out whatever business he had there but not long enough to go any farther. Unless …! Had he known where Gloria was all along? If she was living within twenty-five or thirty miles, he could have … It was too horrible and totally disloyal, Janet berated herself, to wonder how her husband had accomplished his ex-wife’s demise – yet she couldn’t put it out of her mind.

Innes had changed, of course, which made it a little more believable. He had been lovingly tender on their wedding night, soothing away what he obviously took to be her fear of the act itself but which was actually fear of what he would find out. He had said nothing then – for some reason, he had waited until the second night before he sneered about her not being a virgin. He clearly hadn’t believed her when she swore that there had only been one other man in her life but he would come round, wouldn’t he? Everything would come all right, wouldn’t
it? He wouldn’t dare to tell anybody – he wouldn’t want anyone to know.

She needed little persuasion to carry on as cook, even knowing that the other employees would think it queer, but it had slowly dawned on her that this had been Innes’s plan from the start. As an ordinary employee, she could up-tail and leave at any time to go to a better-paid job or whatever but, as his wife, she was bound hand and foot to The Sycamores. If only she had somebody to confide in. All the women had been really friendly with her before but, since she married the Superintendent, they were cool towards her, probably scared that she would carry tales.

The only real friend she had was Henry Rae, a seventeen-year-old boy who was shortly to be married himself, and she would do anything rather than spoil his happiness.

When she opened the door to him, Fay had wondered why Henry looked so miserable. He had refused to go in to say hello to her parents and just waited for her to put on her coat. He had walked more quickly than usual, making her almost run to keep up, and she knew that something was far wrong.

When they came to the little path into the wood, he turned in and thumped down on the mossy bank, the spot where they did most of their talking. ‘What’s the matter, Henry?’ she asked, taking care to sit a little apart from him for it seemed he didn’t want any contact with her. ‘I know there’s something so you had better tell me. It surely can’t be all that bad.’

A low, agonised groan came from him at that. ‘Oh, God, Fay, it’s worse than you could ever imagine.’

‘Don’t say that! Tell me now and let me judge for myself.’

He heaved a long sigh. ‘I was going to tell you I’d stopped loving you … but I can’t, I can’t. I love you even more than ever – if that’s possible – but I can’t marry you.’

He chanced a quick glance at her then and was horrified at the pallor of her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Fay,’ he muttered, ‘but I can’t explain.’

‘No, Henry, that’s no good. You say you can’t marry me
yet you can’t tell me why? I’m not letting you off with that.’

He had always known that she was strong-willed and had admired her for it but, at this moment, he wished that she could just accept what he was saying and leave it. ‘Fay,’ he began, ‘you’ll hate me for what you’re making me say … but all right. I’ll tell you the truth …’ He paused, then took the blue envelope from his pocket and laid it on the ground between them. ‘Better still, read that.’ He sat back and waited while she peered in the gathering gloom trying to make out what was written on the document.

After only a few moments, she whispered, her brow furrowing in perplexity, This is
your
birth certificate?’

‘Yes, so now you see why …’

‘I don’t understand. Why this funny name? Where did it come from? Who were you named after?’

‘My … father.’ He was too ashamed to look at her.

‘But … you said your father’s name was William.’

‘I thought he was my father till I saw that. It seems my mother had been … she had me to a Russian she met somewhere or so Max was told.’

‘Max? How would Max know about it?’ Her tone was accusing.

She was no happier after Henry gave her the details. ‘But I still don’t understand. If your mother was already dead, why did your father … you know who I mean. Why did he give you that name? No one would have found out what your mother had done if he had just called you Henry.’

‘Abby says …’

‘Abby?’ Fay had almost forgotten about the girl he had called for in his delirium at the time of his accident.

‘My sister. She says Gramma told her Father had really loved our mother so I suppose he’d wanted to carry out her dying wish.’

Relieved that Abby posed no threat to her, Fay shook her head. ‘That doesn’t ring true. If he loved her, he wouldn’t want her name besmirched.’

‘Well, I can’t explain it any more than that,’ Henry mumbled,
wretchedly. ‘That’s what Mrs Gow, the Session Clerk’s widow, told Max.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Fay said softly, ‘Are you sure Max was telling the truth?’

‘Why would he tell me a lie?’

‘You see, before I knew you, I walked out with him three times …’