Barra’s Angel. Eileen Campbell
in believing that it doesna’ take six hours for a cabbage to cook?’
Whack!
Murdo needed to go to the bathroom. His bowels, like the rest of him, were used to a certain routine, a routine that did not include his wife’s presence at this time of the day.
He rose.
‘Where d’you think you’re off to?’
‘The bathroom, if you don’t mind.’
‘Open the window, then. And don’t go mad wi’ the toilet roll.’
The moment had passed. Murdo sat down, dejected.
That’ll be my piles back,’ he murmured. The inference was clear. Helen would be responsible for the inevitable onset of this adversity.
‘Don’t go blaming yir piles on me! Blame herself if you want someone to blame. Stravaiging about the place giving me orders!’
‘Wha …?’
‘Her wi’ the Alice band!’
‘Who?’
‘Madam Cunningham to you and me. Thinks she’s the lady o’ the manor when she’s here.’ The cabbage was scooped into a large earthenware bowl to await further torture. ‘Well,’ Helen continued, waving the knife dangerously close to her husband’s beard, ‘I had enough of that last time round. She’s no’ even close to being a lady. Not like Alfie. Not a bit like Alfie!’
Murdo relit his pipe. It tasted sour, and there was no sign of another mug of tea. He had liked Alfreda Cunningham a lot, admired her even. But how on earth his wife could consider Alfreda a lady when the wild besom had met her end in a backstreet brawl in some dive in Marseilles (accompanied by a twenty-year-old waiter she had picked up in Monte Carlo, no less) was beyond him.
Alfreda Cunningham had been the only woman he’d ever known who had smoked Havana cigars, the bigger the better. And that was the way she had lived. Everything had had to be bigger and better, including presumably the young waiter. Murdo embarrassed himself with the thought, and reached down to calm his dog.
Well, Alfie was gone. Forty years old, and this big old empty house was all she had left behind her. This house – and her son, Stewart Cunningham, as different from his mother as night from day.
For a moment, Murdo cast his mind back to the years of half-terms and holidays when the bairn had walked by his side, hanging on Murdo’s every word as the ways of the countryside were gently and carefully explained to him, learning to love and respect the cruelly beautiful land of his birth.
Stewart the boy had filled an empty, lonely corner of Murdo’s heart, but it had been Stewart the man who set off to gouge out a living in that foreign, heartless, concrete city – London. Murdo knew he had no right to the hurt he’d felt then, and he’d buried it a long time ago.
‘They’ll only be here for a couple of days, Helen. They’ll be back down south for Easter.’
‘He’s going to sell this place out from under us, Murdo,’ Helen warned, pulling off the hairnet to expose her still vibrant brown hair, hardly touched by the silver that had long since claimed Murdo’s own.
He rose again, and gathered her in his beefy arms. ‘No, he’s no’ going to be doing that,’ he soothed. ‘Dinna fash yirself wi’ wild imaginings, Helen. We’ve a home here – as long as we want it. Stewart wouldna’ do less.’
‘There’s something behind it, Murdo. I can feel it in my bones.’
‘Bonny bones they are, too.’ Murdo smiled, lifting his wife’s chin. ‘Educated bones.’
His teasing had the desired effect. Helen relaxed against him, a forlorn smile lifting the corners of her mouth. ‘Yir an awful man,’ she sighed, pulling gently away from him. ‘But it’s no’ Stewart I’m worried about. It’s her. She’s got far more influence on him than us.’
‘Hmm, maybe … At any rate, I’m no’ going to stand still for a change o’ residence at our age. OK now?’
Murdo reached for the kettle, and filled it under the splashing of the old taps. ‘If there is anything behind it, it wouldna’ surprise me if he’s going to sort out something wi’ the fishing rights. That river’s a wee goldmine, and there’s many a one around here who’s making a bob or two hiring out a stretch of it to the tourists.’
‘Well, if that’s the idea, he needna’ think I’m getting tartanned up to put on a show for a bunch o’ foreigners!’ Helen’s temper flared once more.
Murdo gave up on his tea. ‘I’ll be in the vegetable plot if you want me,’ he murmured. Gallus had anticipated the move, and was already scraping at the back door.
Thank God for dumb animals, Murdo reflected, pulling on his wellies. A minute later, the pair set out together into the misty haze of the April morning.
‘It’s going to be a fine day,’ Murdo informed Gallus, his natural good humour restored.
Gallus looked up at his master. ‘I suppose you already knew that, though,’ Murdo said, tickling the dog’s rump with his walking stick.
Gallus barked. Of course he knew it.
Hattie finished making her bed, pulling the quilt over the blankets and smoothing its faded roses with the palms of her hands. She gathered the pitcher and glass from her bedside table, and carried it into the kitchen-cum-living room which made up the other half of the cottage. Only then did she walk back to the bedroom and switch off the light.
While Hattie had sat in the chilling dampness of her tiny prison cell, Alfreda had had the old scullery converted into a toilet, demolishing the outside shed which had served that purpose for so many years past. A new sink and stove took pride of place in a corner of the living room, but even they paled against the most precious gift of all.
Hattie had been welcomed home to the wonder of electricity. From that day onwards, she had never had to suffer the darkness again.
She ran her hand around the circumference of the metal fixture before flicking up the switch. ‘God bless, Mrs Cunningham,’ she said, as she did every morning – and every night.
A cheerful rat-a-tat brought Jennifer to the front door. She could see the pale blue reflection of Graham’s Triumph through the glass panel at the end of the hall, and threw the door wide in welcome.
‘You’re early on the go.’ She smiled, tucking a golden wisp of curl behind her ear.
Graham glanced at his watch. ‘Ten’s too early?’ he asked, his kind features wary.
‘No, of course not, Graham. You’re welcome any time. Come on in, we’re having breakfast.’
Jennifer led him into the kitchen, and motioned to a chair. ‘Coffee?’
Graham nodded, bending to squeeze Jim’s shoulder. He fought an instinctive shudder as he felt the sharpness of bone beneath his hand.
‘How’s it going, pardner?’
Jim stirred his porridge half-heartedly. ‘It’s going,’ he answered. ‘I’d be happier if I could get something decent to eat inside me, though.’
Jennifer poured a fresh coffee from the percolator, an acquisition which had brought them such delight in happier times.
‘God, what’re you complaining about?’ Graham asked, rummaging in a battered briefcase. ‘Wish I had someone to serve me a good bowl o’ porridge once in a while.’
‘Once in a while would be enough for you,’ Jennifer chided, setting his coffee before him and sitting down. She smiled to take the sting from her words, and Graham’s heart lurched at the desolation in her eyes.
‘Well, no doubt there’s a woman out there ready to make an honest man out o’ me. I’ll bide my time, though.