Cast the First Stone (17 page)

Mary pressed her lips together in a tight line before answering. ‘We're going to make arrangements for you to stay at a home for unmarried girls,' she answered briefly. ‘I don't know where yet. Somewhere up there, probably. Dr Mackintosh may know of a place.' Fiona deduced from her mother's tone of voice that it would be as far away as possible, which was where she was going now, to the wilds of Northumberland.

Her uncle arrived on Saturday, towards teatime. He greeted Fiona as though everything was normal. ‘Hello there, young lady. My goodness! You certainly are a young lady now, aren't you? But then I've not seen you since you were knee high to a grasshopper. You're a pretty lass, just like your mother.'

Mary simpered and blushed a little as Donald kissed her cheek. ‘Have you had a good journey, Donald?' she asked.

‘Aye, not so bad. I reckon it's about a hundred and fifty miles, so I've made quite good time. I set off at ten o'clock and stopped off to eat my sandwiches somewhere near Durham.'

‘We're very grateful to you, Donald,' said Wilfred, ‘coming all this way.' He looked and sounded somewhat apologetic.

‘Think nothing of it,' said Donald. ‘We'll be delighted to have Fiona to stay with us. It's been far too long since we saw any of you.'

No mention was made of the real reason he was here, and Fiona dared to believe that her uncle would not be one to condemn her. He seemed to her to be the very archetype of a farmer; like the farmer, Old Lob, that she recalled from her Beacon reading book in the infant school. Uncle Donald was portly with ruddy cheeks and kindly but shrewd blue eyes. Beneath his pork pie hat, which he took off on arrival, his faded gingerish hair stood up in tufts. All he needed was a straw in his mouth to make the image complete.

‘Well, you'll be ready for a meal now,' said Mary. ‘There's a steak and kidney pie in the oven, and I've made a bed up in the spare room for you.'

‘Champion!' replied Donald, with a beaming smile.

Fiona made herself scarce that evening, guessing that her parents would have plenty to say to her uncle. She completed her packing, including, at the last minute, the little pink teddy bear that Dave had won for her at the hoopla stall. It still all seemed very unreal to her. She had wondered whether to write, secretly, to Diane; her friend would be thinking that it was all very mysterious. But she had decided it might be better to leave things as they were.

She looked pensively at the little teddy bear. What a happy and memorable time they had shared, she and Dave, Diane and Andy, at the funfair. And how disastrously it had ended. She wondered if she would ever see Dave again. She doubted it. And what must he be thinking about her disappearance? She would probably never know.

She put into her case some of her well-loved books from childhood and her early teenage years:
Anne of Green Gables
and
Anne of Avonlea
. How she had loved to read of the budding romance of Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe on Prince Edward Island. Dave had reminded her of Gilbert, Anne's first love; he turned out to be her one and only love as the books progressed. But Fiona knew that such a happy ending was not for her. She included
Little Women
,
Rebecca
, JB Priestley's
The Good Companions
– a host of lively characters there who became like friends as she read about them – and two of Thomas Hardy's Wessex novels,
The Mayor of Casterbridge
and
The Return of the Native
.

During her time in the lower sixth form Fiona had become acquainted with the works of Thomas Hardy – they were studying them as part of the advanced English course – and she was now an avid reader of his books. She regretted that she would be unable to complete the English course. The excellent teacher of the group, however, had awakened in her a love for literature, and she felt that this could be a solace to her in the months that lay ahead.

Her case felt as though it weighed a ton, but it would only have to be carried as far as her uncle's vehicle.

She went downstairs at half past nine to make herself a drink of cocoa. Her parents and uncle were deep in conversation which stopped when she entered the room.

‘I'm going to have an early night,' she said. She placed a perfunctory kiss on the cheeks of her mother and father; they still seemed to expect it.

‘Don't I get a kiss?' joked her uncle. It was he who kissed her cheek affectionately. ‘Goodnight, luv, and God bless,' he whispered.

‘Make sure you're up bright and early in the morning, Fiona,' said her mother. ‘Set your alarm for seven o'clock. You uncle will want to be on his way pretty sharpish.'

‘OK, Mum, will do,' she answered, disappearing upstairs with her cocoa.

She had her drink in bed, then tried to settle herself for sleep. It would be her last night in this bed for . . . how long? Sleep was a long time coming as she tossed about, anxious as to what the future might hold for her. The baby – how incredible to imagine that – what about the baby? ‘It' would have to be adopted, given to someone else. The shame of a fatherless child would be too great for her mother to ever contemplate. Eventually her restless mind was stilled and she slept until the alarm clock broke into her slumber.

Her mother had cooked bacon and eggs, no doubt in honour of their guest, but Fiona could only eat cereal and one piece of toast. She knew it was too early for the morning sickness that she had heard expectant mothers suffered; nevertheless her stomach had tied itself into knots.

She had dreaded the goodbyes to her mother and father, but her mother's uncompromising attitude towards her had lessened considerably as she put her arms round her and kissed her fondly. ‘Goodbye, Fiona love; God bless,' she said. ‘Your dad and I will be saying our prayers for you.' There was even the glimmer of a tear in the corner of Mary's eye.

She felt her father give a slight sob as he held her close to him for a moment. ‘Be a brave girl,' he said. ‘It's for the best, you know. Your mum'll write to you, and we'll come and see you . . . sometime soon, I hope.'

‘OK, Dad. Take care of yourself and Mum,' she said. ‘I'll write soon. Cheerio then.' There was really nothing else to say.

What a relief it was to be on the way at last. Fiona and her uncle spoke very little as they made their way northwards out of the urban sprawl of the city of Leeds and on to the North York Moors. She had scarcely ever seen the moors in all their late summer glory even though she lived so near to them. They were at their loveliest in late August with the heather at the height of its flowering. The distant hills were a haze of purple, broken by outcrops of white limestone and solitary sheep grazing here and there. Nearer to the road were bushes of golden gorse and fronds of bracken, shading from copper to a rich bronze hue.

Despite her anxiety about the traumas that lay ahead of her Fiona felt an uplifting of her spirits at the sight of the beautiful countryside, and the churned-up feeling in her stomach began to ease a little.

‘It's a lovely sight, isn't it?' she said. ‘I can't remember the last time I came up this way. I'd forgotten how beautiful it is.'

‘Aye, it's all reet,' said her uncle, in an understatement typical of a true Yorkshireman. He had been Yorkshire born and bred before moving north to Northumberland. ‘It's a bonny sight, I'll admit, and you'll find it's not so bad where we live an' all. Bloomin' cold in t'winter, mind.'

‘That won't bother me, Uncle Donald,' said Fiona. ‘We get our fair share of cold weather in Leeds. I'm . . . I'm looking forward to seeing the farm . . . and everything,' she added, rather diffidently. ‘Thank you very much for saying I could stay with you.'

‘Aye, well . . . Beattie and me, we'll be only too glad to have a bit of company.' He glanced sideways at Fiona, nodding understandingly. ‘Seems you've got yerself in a spot of bother, eh, lass?'

‘That's right, Uncle Donald,' she replied. ‘I'm in the bad books at the moment. Mum and Dad went mad at me, at least Mum did. I can't blame them though. I know I've been very silly and caused a lot of trouble. I never meant this to happen. I can't really believe it has.'

‘Aye, we never do,' answered her uncle. ‘A moment's madness and you're up the creek without a paddle. I know you're a good lass though; I can see that. Not one o' them flibbertigibbets. We'll not say much about it, your aunt and me, and we'll look after you.' He smiled at her. ‘I don't suppose you'll mind earning your keep, though, will you?'

‘Not at all,' she replied. ‘Helping on the farm, you mean?'

‘Aye, summat like that. Your aunt and me, we were talking about it. We had a couple of land girls during the war, you know. Two grand lasses they were. Our two farm lads were called up, but only one of 'em came back. Young Jimmy, he were lost on D-Day. Barry's back working with us, but we could do with another pair of hands. We won't expect you to do owt too heavy, mind. I reckon you could learn how to milk our cows. We've got machines now instead of doing it by hand. And I remember how you took a fancy to our little piglets when you were a nipper. Mind you, it's a bit of a mucky job, looking after t'pigs.'

‘I don't mind a bit of muck, Uncle,' she replied, eager to prove that she was willing to work.

‘Aye, well then, we'll get you sorted out with the right tackle. There's some wellies that the girls left behind and dungarees. Like I say, though, we won't expect you to do owt too strenuous seeing we how you're . . . well, you know.'

‘I don't feel any different,' said Fiona. ‘Maybe I will, soon, but just now it feels, sometimes, as though I've dreamt it all . . . I wish it was only a dream,' she added pensively.

‘Ne'er mind, luv,' said her uncle. ‘Your Aunt Beattie'll look after you. We've had two lasses of our own; we've got grandchildren an' all now, so we know what it's all about. Summat else that you might like to do is go to market with your aunt. We have a stall at Alnwick market and one at Rothbury. Our farm's midway between 'em, so we can do both of 'em.'

‘And what do you sell?' asked Fiona.

‘Oh, all sorts o'stuff. Our home-grown produce; spuds and carrots, Brussel sprouts, cabbage; whatever's in season. We're a mixed farm, you see, part arable and part livestock. And Beattie makes jams and marmalades, chutney, pickles . . . There's nowt she won't have a shot at. Happen you could help her in the kitchen.'

‘Yes, I'd like that,' agreed Fiona. ‘My mum makes marmalade and jam, only in a small way, just for us, and I used to help her sometimes. Lately, though, she's started making it to sell at church, at coffee mornings and sales of work and that sort of thing.'

‘Aye, I've been hearing about their obsession wi' t'church.' Her uncle nodded. ‘Sorry, luv, but that's what it sounds like to me. I never thought of yer mam and dad as being keen churchgoers.'

‘No, they weren't until . . . well, it's a few years ago now that they got so wrapped up in it all.'

‘Your aunt and me, we don't have too much time to go to church, happen two or three times a year. We try to go at Easter if we can. Of course we all went to Sunday school when we were nippers. That's where I met Beattie, at summat to do wi' church. And I remember Wilfred, your dad; he were there an' all. He were about five years younger than Beattie. It were quite a lot later that he met your mother. Aye, we had happy times in Sunday school, and it stands you in good stead. You never really forget what you learnt there. So I'm not saying that there's owt wrong with yer mam and dad being so keen, like. But Beattie and me, I reckon we're pretty good law-abiding folk, and we try to lead Christian lives. We don't need to be at church every Sunday.'

‘No, I know what you mean, Uncle Donald,' said Fiona. ‘They've just got a bit carried away with it all, and it made it harder for me when . . . well, when all this happened.'

‘Aye, I can understand, lass,' said Donald.

They were silent for a while after that interchange of thoughts as they passed through the lovely countryside of Wensleydale and Swaledale. They stopped to eat the sandwiches and to drink from the flask of coffee that Mary had prepared for them, just north of Richmond. Then after what Donald called a ‘comfort stop' behind a drystone wall, they set off again.

Leaving Yorkshire behind they bypassed Darlington and Durham, travelling north towards Northumberland. Their route took them through the Cheviot Hills, catching a glimpse now and again of the River Coquet. This was sheep country of flat moorland and wide dales. Donald pointed out the Blackface and the Cheviot sheep roaming on the hills, remarking that they owned a small flock of Cheviots.

‘Not far now,' he said as they passed through an area of forest and then a gorge of sandstone rocks. ‘I can see you're getting a bit weary, like.' Fiona, indeed, had felt her eyes beginning to close.

The scenery was more rugged now. Her uncle told her they were near to the sites where the English and Scottish armies once went to war, and there was a wildness about the landscape that appealed to Fiona.

Eventually they turned off down a narrow lane, pulling up after a mile or so at a farm with solid greystone buildings grouped round a cobbled yard. It appeared forbidding at a first glance, like a fortress from medieval times, which might well be how it had started out; but there was a column of smoke arising from the chimney of the farmhouse and the door was propped open with a large stone as if in welcome. As Fiona looked at her new home a ginger and white cat came through the door and made its way towards them, its tail held high in the air.

‘Here we are then,' said Uncle Donald. ‘This is Cragside Farm, and here's Felix coming to say hello.'

Fiona stayed at Cragside Farm for more than four months, until the January of 1952. Looking back on it she realized that it had been one of the happiest times of her young life, despite the fears and misgivings she had about the future. Her aunt and uncle were kind to her and very understanding.