Barra’s Angel. Eileen Campbell
sister, and the girls – though several years apart – had always seemed very close.
‘I’m ashamed to say I haven’t looked in on them at all this week,’ Rose continued. ‘It just gets to where you don’t know what to say any more.’
‘I know,’ Sandra replied. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do now but wait.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s hard, though.’
‘I can imagine,’ Rose agreed. ‘They’re so brave, both of them. I don’t have any family of my own, but at least Jennifer has you ’n’ your folks nearby. She’ll need yis more than ever after …’ It was impossible to say the words.
‘The thing of it is,’ Sandra said, a troubled frown creasing her youthful forehead, ‘you’d think we’d be closer than ever just now. I mean, she is my sister. But … it’s as though she doesn’t want us near them, like we’re not welcome. It’s putting an awful strain on Mam.’
‘It’s probably just that she wants Jim to herself – while she has him,’ Rose said gently. ‘It’s understandable.’
‘I suppose so.’ Sandra drew a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. ‘Enough o’ that. Are yis off home now?’
‘We’re going to Bremner’s first.’ Rose smiled, nodding in Barra’s direction. ‘Cream hornets.’
Barra was leaning against the counter, a faraway look in his eyes.
‘We’re boring him to death.’ Sandra laughed.
As Rose said her cheerios Barra made for the staircase, turning at the last minute to cast a cheery wave in Sandra’s direction.
‘Yis’re all wrong,’ he called back to her. ‘I know someone who’ll make him better. Jim’ll be up ’n’ running … aaaah!’ he screamed, as Rose gave him a push that sent him flying. He missed the top two steps and scrambled to land upright on the third.
‘Are you all right?’ Rose asked, immediately horrified at the result of her action.
Barra blinked back at her, his expression a cross between surprise and terror.
‘What did you do that for?’ he asked in dismay.
Chalmers laid his paper on the floor by his chair, the pages in disarray. ‘I’m off down for a pint,’ he said.
‘Can I come?’ Barra asked.
‘Are you into the drink now?’ his father enquired, peering across the tops of his glasses.
‘Och, Dad, I’d just like a bit o’ fresh air.’
Chalmers glanced across at Rose, but she had another of her damn books in her hand, and refused to lift her head to look at him.
‘I’m no’ surprised,’ Chalmers remarked. ‘A fine day like this, and you haven’t had a minute to yirsel to enjoy it. You’d’ve been better off coming wi’ me to Dunfearn.’
‘I would,’ Barra agreed. ‘You’re right there, Da. I definitely would.’ He was sitting on the orange carpet in front of the television, clapping the damn cat who’d stretched himself out to such an extent that Chalmers had had to cramp up his legs to avoid touching it.
As hard as he’d tried, Chalmers had found it impossible to concentrate on his paper, and trying to watch the telly and the cat at the same time was getting on his nerves.
What was Rose thinking about, keeping the boy cooped up like this? Barra was at his happiest out in the woods, enjoying the long spring evenings. Still, he had been relieved to learn that Barra had accompanied Rose into Craigourie. If his wife had intended any kind of confrontation with Sheena (Chalmers shivered at the thought), Barra’s presence would have prevented her from making a scene. Not that Rose was the type for ‘scenes’, Chalmers consoled himself.
So what was going on? Rose was making a poor pretence of reading her book; she hadn’t turned a page for ages. And what was all that at supper? Barra saying his mother had pushed him down the stairs in Boots, and Rose denying it, till the two of them got into an argument. That really was puzzling.
Half the time, Rose and Barra didn’t even have to talk to each other, they were so attuned to what the other was thinking. Wasn’t it himself that felt the outsider when those two got together? He could never remember them arguing like that. Never.
‘Everything’s going t’hell around here,’ he said, thinking aloud.
‘No argument from me,’ Rose quipped.
Barra turned to look at them both.
‘Are you going for a pint or not?’ he asked.
‘Aye,’ Chalmers answered. ‘Are you coming, Rose?’
‘Nope.’
Chalmers glared at her. ‘It’s Saturday night. It’ll do you good.’
‘It certainly won’t.’ She finally looked up. ‘Why would I want to sit wi’ your cronies, listening to the lot o’ yis rambling on about nothing, and getting crosswise with each other in no time flat?’
‘Right then. Forget I asked!’
‘Right then,’ Rose repeated. ‘And yir no’ taking Barra with you. It’s against the law.’
‘I bloody well am!’ Chalmers said, almost shouting. ‘No-one bothers about that out here.’ Socks stirred, fixing him with a malevolent golden stare.
‘I’ll get my shoes,’ he said to Barra, his voice quieter.
As Chalmers headed for the stairs, Rose leaned forward in her chair. ‘You’re not to go through the woods, Barra. And sit with Maisie when you get there. I don’t want you getting involved wi’ that lot.’
Barra screwed up his face. ‘Come with us, then, Mam. If we all went, and we walked through the woods together, you might get to meet Jamie. He’ll be wondering where I am by now.’
‘This is the worst day of my life,’ Rose stated, slowly, and with conviction.
‘It is not, Mam,’ Barra reminded her. ‘What about when yir grandad died?’
Rose gasped. ‘I didn’t mean … God, you’re getting a quick tongue on you.’
Barra stared back at her. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Aye, you are!’ Rose insisted. She picked up her book, hoping to hide the hurt in her eyes.
Immediately Barra was beside her on the couch, his hand reaching to clutch her own. ‘I’m sorry, Mam.’
‘It’s all right, Barra.’ Rose nodded, squeezing his hand. She could barely trust herself to speak. Why on earth had he brought that up? She didn’t need any more punishment right now, and she certainly didn’t need reminding …
The evening darkened from the shadow of Rose’s nightmare – a nightmare which had haunted her all of her life.
Martha Sinclair, a child herself, had given birth to Rose in a home for unmarried mothers, a home two hundred miles distant from Craigourie, a home where Rose should have been left, given up for the adoption that had been so carefully, so heart-breakingly planned.
It hadn’t happened.
Martha, two months past her sixteenth birthday, had wrapped her baby daughter in a blanket and left the Salvation Army home in the dead of night, tramping the long road and the miles from Dundee back to Craigourie. A day and a half later, in the lambing snows of 1925, she’d knocked on her parents’ door.
‘I couldna’ give her to strangers,’ she’d said, pushing Rose into the arms of Bartholomew Sinclair, while his wife Joan stood weeping soundlessly by his side. And with that, Martha turned, disappearing from all of their lives for ever.
Four years