Capital Union, A (15 page)

As the weeks passed, I began to feel at home. Jim planted out each crop of seedlings with the new moon, and muttered a Gaelic blessing over them. ‘It is the price you pay for being raised by a Highland Granny,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do it once and had to get up in the middle of the night and come to the greenhouse. The old ways gnaw inside your head until you do what they say. Darwin got it wrong. There is no survival of the fittest here. It is all to do with planting in the right season. You have to follow the moon for timing. She is the Earth’s clock.’

‘So you hold with the old ways, Jim?’ I said.

‘I’ve told you, I don’t hold with anything. It’s what you feel inside that makes the difference. The rest is just on the surface,’ and he squirted the hose at me. ‘Come and prick out these seedlings, madam, and, if you are very good, I might show you my special recipe for the compost, with the exception of my magic ingredient. That will go with me to the grave.’

The tomato plants grew bigger in the early spring sun and Jim kept the heaters on as it was still cold at night. ‘The
ministry
men expect miracles,’ he grumbled, adding a little milk to the watering can.

Mr Lamont rang the farm to let me know that Douglas would be released on the tenth of March and that he was
starting a campaign to stand in the Kirkcaldy by-election as an SNP candidate. ‘He is in much better spirits now,’ he reported, ‘but come early as they are planning to let their jailbird fly with the dawn.’

Mrs Ogilvie agreed that I could stay overnight at the Edinburgh flat so I could be on time for Douglas’ release. I arrived there at five to find Mrs MacDougall going out. She flicked a glance at my Ministry-issue trench coat, and decided to speak, after all. ‘This is a big improvement,’ she said. ‘I have to say, you sometimes looked a bit thrown together in those old clothes of Jeff’s mother’s. She was always so well turned out, but then that was back in the day. Glad to see you making a contribution to the war effort. It balances the scales.’

I smoothed down my uniform, not trusting myself to speak.

‘I am sorry about Jeff,’ she said, ‘but I think it is better if we return to being nodding acquaintances. Our last… association wasn’t the most positive, although the Lord moves in
mysterious
ways. “Ye cannot serve God and Mammon,” Matthew 6:24, although we are but his handmaidens.’

I heard her heels tapping down the street as I unlocked the door to the flat, but it jammed on the post behind it. When I got in, there was a booklet in brown paper, and I was
surprised
to find a condolence letter from Professor Schramml, postmarked Geneva. He was very upset to learn of Jeff’s death and wrote:

I tried to imagine the kind-hearted professor in exile from the place he had made his home; all his possessions abandoned upstairs. I wondered if he would mind that I had lost his
dictionary
, or that an Austrian airman had slept in his bed. Maybe Professor Schramml would hate Hannes for being a Nazi. I wondered if Hannes really did support the Fatherland and Hitler, and had lied to me to escape.

The flat was bitterly cold, and I pulled the mattress through to the kitchen to sleep by the range. There was no kindling so I got it going with torn-up pages from the London Scots for Home Rule booklet that had just come for Jeff. It was strange to see his name on a parcel, as if he was expected home. It seemed to be all about post-war reconstruction. I never knew Jeff had sent Professor Schramml a photo of me, but I wasn’t Mrs McCaffrey any more. That person had died with Jeff, and I wasn’t Agnes Thorne, either.

Perhaps I was over-tired from travelling, or perhaps the work in the greenhouses had left me more bone-weary than I realised, but I slept in. By the time I cycled over to Saughton, I was just in time to see a piper leading a procession to the end of the drive with the tall figure of Douglas at its head. There was a crowd of supporters and a newshound scribbling in a notebook while a photographer lined up a picture. ‘Any complaints, Douglas?’ he shouted. He was stooped from his time behind bars, thin and pale, and his beard was longer than ever.

‘None against the prison authorities, but the whole
criminal
system is in need of some reform, as is our whole social and economic condition,’ he said.

His voice sounded just as warm and strong as I remembered.

‘What did you miss most behind bars? Have you changed your views? Do you have a message for Mr Ghandi on his fast?’

But Douglas was walking on. He disappeared into a car before I could speak to him. A woman next to me said, ‘That was quite a moment. They composed a new tune for him on the pipes, Douglas Grant’s Welcome. We’ll be having the march and the victory yet.’

‘Where has he gone?’ I asked, trying to see if Mr Lamont was around.

‘I think they are heading into town for a supporters’
breakfast
. I cannae mind where it was to be. Some nice hotel I expect, and then home to Ardhall. Are you a Party member?’ She was dressed from head to toe in blue and white.

I wheeled my bicycle away without answering. I had been looking forward to this moment for so long, but he hadn’t seemed to be looking for me. Perhaps he had forgotten his
letter
in all the excitement of getting out.

I tried not to cry on the train on the way back to Stirling. Douglas’ release was mentioned in three paragraphs on page three of
The Scotsman
, just above the Imperial Service Medal list of Scottish recipients, and a line about a child’s body being found in Leith Docks. No one knew who the poor wee mite was. I put the paper back on the seat where I had found it.

Mrs Ogilvie was so concerned at how upset I was when I got back to Laurelhill that she agreed I could go to Ardhall near Leuchars to see Douglas on the fourteenth of March. She even helped me to send a telegram saying when I would arrive.

The bus twisted along narrow country roads, past
farmhouses
that reminded me of home, and as we drew near Leuchars, I tried to check my make-up in my powder mirror, but the bus was too shoogly. It was hard to look pretty in a shirt, tie and knee breeches. I noticed that the waistband on my trousers was tighter, but it was covered up by my jumper and trench coat, so I wasn’t too embarrassed. People seemed to look at me with more respect now I was in uniform, and an old man shook my hand as I got off the bus. Fife was flat compared to Stirling. Large fields stretched out, ploughed and ready for planting, and I could see the sea in the distance. There was a lonely hill and woods near Douglas’ house, which I found with a farmhand’s directions.

Douglas didn’t recognise me at first. It must have been my uniform and I was early, but when he shouted Agnes, and squeezed me in a great bear hug, I was the happiest woman alive. ‘I am so sorry about Jeff,’ he said. ‘But let me look at you. You look so rosy. The country life must suit you. Welcome
to my humble abode, although none so humble as my more recent home, as you well know.’

The inside was neat and sparkling. Winter jasmine stood in a pottery jug on the table and seedlings were pricked out in trays on a deep windowsill. ‘Still growing your magic beans, Douglas?’ I asked.

‘They’re proving slightly harder to germinate than I
anticipated
, but I am more hopeful for my gentian, delphinium and daphne for the summer. An army friend sent them from his garden in Bute. I believe he got hold of them in Bombay. One of the more bizarre advantages of war. Cross-pollination.’

He offered to take my coat, but I kept it on.

‘So, how are you? You must be missing Jeff?’

My throat tightened and tears sprang into my eyes. Douglas looked dismayed and said, ‘They did their best to contain the outbreak, you know, but these things are very difficult when everyone is so run down. Did they let you see him before he died?’

I nodded. ‘Let’s not talk about sad things. I’ve come to see you.’ I tried to smile.

‘Jeff would have wanted you to be happy, Agnes. “Enjoy your youth, dear heart; soon it will be the turn of other men.” Theognis. A man who knew what it was to fall from grace, as I do, to my cost. But a cup of tea is the greatest cure of all, at least in the short term. You sit down and I’ll make us a pot.’

He wandered into the kitchen, leaving me by a new fire that licked round twigs and pine cones, searching with blue fingers for the small pieces of coal balanced on the wood, and pulling them down. There were brown, glazed pottery mugs on the tray he brought through. It was lined with a
hand-crocheted
doily, edged with bright glass beads.

‘We’ll have scones shortly,’ he said, ‘although they may not be up to your own high standard.’

‘You are making me feel like Mrs MacDougall,’ I said.

‘Ah, the veritable warrior of the stair. How is she? Still sniping at all and sundry?’ He sat down opposite me.

‘No, the guns have fallen silent.’

‘Most unexpected,’ he smiled, ‘but then I suppose you are hardly there now. Where did you say you were based?’

‘Laurelhill in Stirling. You would like it. It’s a nursery.’

‘Did you contribute to that insane vegetable submarine in the George Street exhibition? HMS Dig? I believe its conning tower was made out of leeks and rhubarb.’

I shook my head. ‘Jim mentioned the “Vegetables for Victory” show, but I couldn’t go.’ I didn’t mention I had saved my day off for his release.

He poured the tea. The teapot shook slightly in his hands.

‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ he said.

‘Sugar is a real treat. I used to feed my ration to the
milkman
’s horse,’ I said.

‘The toothless one? The one I was to ride into battle?’

‘He was called Flash.’ I laughed, pleased he remembered that first visit, and took a sip of tea.

‘Are you free for good now, Douglas? They won’t send you back to prison, will they?’

‘I think they’d like to,’ he replied. ‘They find my views… difficult. I am trying to get my conviction quashed by
appealing
to the Scottish Estates.’ He sipped his tea. ‘However,
self-government
remains my real focus.’

‘Even at the expense of your Greek poet?’

‘Never at the cost of culture. Never that. I hope to have finished translating his work in August.’

‘And will I be able to read it in Scots?’

‘Alas, no. Even my Sorley translation has been downgraded from Lallans, as I originally planned, to English. My publisher wants to put it before a wider audience and I agreed, albeit reluctantly. Money is the real master. More tea?’

I held out my cup.

‘Where will they find the paper for it all?’ I asked.

‘At this rate I will have to ask Sorley to bring some
papyrus
back from Cairo. And personal projects aside, we can’t get hold of enough paper to produce a comprehensive statement
of SNP policies to take us forward. I am planning to stand in the Kirkcaldy by-election.’

I tried to look interested but I was thinking how beautiful his eyes were. They sparkled as he spoke, even though he was now blethering on about the new hydroelectric power stations and who would take control of them. ‘Can it be right that they suck energy out of the Highlands without directing any of it to the crofters?’

‘No,’ I said, realising too late that he was asking me a
question
and not sure if that was the right answer. I stood up,
wondering
if I might join him on the sofa, when I saw a girl
coming
up the path to the house.

‘That’s our scones,’ he said, unfolding his long legs to go and open the front door.

‘I got the last four, darling,’ the girl said, and I heard them kiss. She was holding his arm as they stepped into the room.

‘You must be Agnes,’ she said. ‘Douglas told me so much about your husband. I am sorry for your loss.’

Douglas slipped the coat from her shoulders as if he was unwrapping a present. ‘Agnes, this is Isabella. Bella, Agnes.’

‘How do you do?’ I said, holding out my hand. Her eyes were huge, kind, with a far-seeing, distant quality.

‘Bella is an artist,’ Douglas said. ‘Far better than a bear like me deserves.’

‘Have you come far, Agnes?’ Isabella asked.

‘Stirling.’ My throat was dry and I swallowed hard.

‘Stirling? Douglas, isn’t that where you said Mr Ford chased everyone round, scribbling in his book and scaring
people
? That must have been awful for you, Agnes, with Jeff in the Party and everything. You have been through so much.’

‘Yes,’ I said. Such a small word. The roar in my head was deafening. How could I have thought Douglas wouldn’t have someone, that it wasn’t only politics that filled him? I sat down and added more sugar to my tea. Isabella was staring at me. Douglas had gone into the kitchen to butter the scones, but I wasn’t hungry any more. She added a log to the fire.

‘So how did you two meet?’ I asked, just for something to say, and a little tea slopped onto the table as I set the cup down. Isabella watched the stain spreading on the cloth, but didn’t move.

‘At Mr Lamont’s house in Lochwinnoch. My mother became his housekeeper when we came over from South Africa. I used to visit her there to escape the madness of the art school in Glasgow.’

Douglas came back through with the scones dripping jam and offered me one. I put it on my plate and licked the sticky stuff from my finger. It was sweet and seedless.

‘This is delicious,’ I said, wondering how I could leave it without offending them.

‘My mother’s recipe,’ said Isabella. ‘She strains the jam to make a jelly. Better for the stomach, especially if you have diverticulitis or a sensitive digestion.’

‘You and your queer foreign ways,’ laughed Douglas.

Isabella laughed. ‘He always says that, but he is resisting progress.’

‘And you are betraying your good Scottish father,’ he replied. ‘What is the point in having a name like Auchterlonie if you strain your jam?’

‘And what about all the Gossarrees on the other side? Don’t they count for anything?’ asked Isabella.

I looked puzzled, and he looked at me and said, ‘A
quarter
Basque, a quarter French, a quarter German, from an old Mecklenburg Junker family, and a quarter Dutch.’ He said it like a catechism. ‘Europa herself sits before you.’

‘Bravo,’ said Isabella, and kissed him.

I stood up. ‘I must be going,’ I said.

‘But you have only just arrived,’ said Isabella. ‘You haven’t had your scone.’

‘I’m sorry – I don’t feel very well.’

‘Forgive me. We are forgetting you are so recently bereaved,’ said Douglas. He moved beside me and stroked my hand. ‘You are being so brave,’ he added. ‘It must be very difficult for you.’

I wanted to blurt out, ‘It’s not about Jeff. It’s you I love,’ but Douglas was looking at Isabella. It was impossible to divide the plough from its share. ‘There is a bus at twenty past,’ I said, looking round at the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘Please stay,’ said Isabella. ‘You could lie down for a while and rest.’

I stood up and straightened my uniform. ‘No, must trot on,’ I said, in Sylvia’s voice, but they didn’t laugh. ‘I also have some business to attend to.’

They looked concerned. ‘We’re moving to Glasgow soon,’ said Douglas. ‘Be sure and look us up if you are through that way. We should be well-established after the wedding in August.’

‘Of course,’ I said, knowing I never would. I was crying inside. I wanted to remember every detail of his bonny face, the colour of his skin and hair, and the light in his eyes. ‘Thank you for the tea.’

I tried not to cry on the bus, but sobs kept escaping and a woman behind me asked if I was all right, and passed me her handkerchief. They were used to seeing grief these days and looked out the window to give me privacy, but I expect they exchanged looks over my head and mouthed the words ‘poor, wee soul’.