The House of Lyall (50 page)

‘Hey, Evie, you're no' … that Bobby didna land you in the family way, did he?'

‘What?' Evie's face blanched, then the colour flooded back. ‘I dinna ken. How dae you …?'

‘Has your monthlies stopped?'

‘I havena had them for a few month noo, but that suited me fine. Bobby wouldna have been …'

‘Oh, God, Evie, you're expectin'! Did you no' ken the signs?'

Mrs Burr was not at all pleased, and cursed herself for being so stupid. Evie was easy meat for the likes of them soldiers; one kiss and she'd likely have been opening her legs. But however sorry she felt for the maid, she could do little to help, except promise to go with her when she confessed her sin to Lady Marianne. ‘We can wait another month maybe, but her Ladyship's aye been real understanding to other lassies in the same predicament.'

As it happened, she did not have to carry out this task. Two mornings later, an agitated Jessie came running into the kitchen. ‘Evie's no' in her bed, an' I never heard her goin' oot.'

The poor girl was found floating in the pond in the rose garden, but Jessie, good friend that she was, only said when questioned by the laird and the doctor, that Evie had been upset because the lad she'd been in love with had been sent away. Mrs Burr drew her own conclusion, also Robert Mowatt, and probably half the women in the glen, but her death had come as such a shock that not one person passed any comments on it.

As the months passed, Robert Mowatt became angrily aware that the population of the glen was to be greatly increased thanks to the activities of the young soldiers, and likely of the officers, too, who should have set a good example. In fact, the doctor reflected one day when he saw Meggie Park waddling along to the shop – her stomach grossly fat although her husband had been a prisoner of war in Germany for almost two years – he wouldn't be surprised if one or two of the married men in the glen who had not been called up had jumped on the bandwagon. If they happened to fill a belly or two in the process, the women concerned could always blame the army.

A compassionate man, Robert could sympathize with the poor souls who'd had little or no loving since their men went off to war, so he let it be known that he would attend such confinements free of any charge, be they the result of a liaison with a soldier or with a neighbour's husband.

‘How can we expect people to behave decently?' he asked Ruairidh when the laird went round for a chat one night. ‘The whole world's been turned upside down by war, and peace-time ethics and rules have gone out through the window.'

‘You know,' Ruairidh observed, his eyes twinkling, ‘I sometimes wish I'd been a lot younger so I could have had a fling, too.'

‘You're not that old.'

‘I'm over forty, and what would my mother have said if I'd put some girl in the family way?'

Robert grinned roguishly. ‘She'd have been delighted if it had been a boy.'

‘Aye,' Ruairidh sighed, ‘she's still going on about there not being an heir to follow me.' He paused, considering the wisdom of saying more, then decided to get it off his chest. ‘And she's still got that old obsession about ministers. She even let slip the other day that she's pleased Melda never had a son to inherit Duncan Peat's insanity.'

It was the doctor's turn to hesitate. ‘I wish she could see sense. I've told her over and over again that Duncan Peat was not mad, just temporarily off balance, and I can vouch for Melda being as sane as any of us – saner maybe, for she has a good sensible head on her shoulders, which is more than I can say for Marianne, at times.'

Ruairidh sighed again. ‘It's just that one thing she has a blockage about. She even worries about Dorrie being tainted and passing the madness on to any son she has – not that there's any chance of that till the war's over.' He straightened his back and concentrated on this new topic. ‘Things are looking a bit brighter for us at the moment.'

‘Yes, but Monty was the man for the job. I don't know why Ike was made over-all commander.'

‘Um … I shouldn't be telling you this, but I know you won't let it go any further. I've heard on the grapevine that we're gearing up for the big push.'

Robert gave a derisive snort. ‘That rumour's been going round for ages now.'

‘We'll just have to wait and see, then, but it can't come soon enough for me. I haven't anyone close in the forces, but the past four years have seemed like four centuries.'

‘It's the parents and sweethearts of the boys who are away fighting … it must be hell for them.'

‘I can vouch for that,' the laird said morosely. I had a brother in the last war, remember, and he didn't come back.'

‘Oh Lord, I'm sorry, Ruairidh! I didn't meant to upset –'

‘I know you didn't, but it's the kind of grief that never leaves you. Mother has never been the same since that telegram was delivered, although losing Ranald brought her and Father closer together.'

Seeing the pain in his friend's eyes, Robert wished fervently that he had not opened his big mouth.

Melda felt compelled to talk about her daughter, although her mother-in-law would not have been her first choice as confidante. ‘I don't know what to say to Dorrie. She hasn't heard from Archie for weeks now, and neither has his sister. Phyllis keeps saying he can't have been killed otherwise she'd have heard, but Dorrie never speaks about him. It's not good for her to keep it bottled up, is it?'

Marianne clicked her tongue. ‘No, she'd be better if she got it out.' She hesitated for a second, then said, ‘I don't think he was the right one for her, anyway.'

Melda was outraged. ‘Yes, I know you've had an ill will against him all along, just because he's a minister, but poor Dorrie really loves him.' She turned away before she told the old woman what she thought of her and her obsession. There was nothing for Dorrie to do but wait, and Phyllis Mathieson had promised to let them know the minute she heard anything.

Only two days later, when the minister's wife came to the castle, Melda knew it was bad news before Phyllis even opened her mouth. ‘Archie hasn't been killed, has he?' she asked anxiously.

The woman nodded tearfully. ‘I promised to let Dorrie know if … I heard anything. I won't stop … You'll understand I can't talk …' She whipped round and walked away.

Melda was left feeling completely at a loss. She hadn't had a chance to say how sorry she was, to try to give comfort … and how could she break it to Dorrie? What should she say? She could remember how she had felt when she'd learned about Rannie, and she hadn't really known whether she loved him or not. She looked up as Marianne came into the room, and in her despair, let fly at her. ‘Well, you'll be pleased to know Archie Grassie's been killed!'

‘Oh!' Marianne's hand flew to her heart. ‘That's a cruel thing to say. I admit I didn't care for the idea of Dorrie marrying him, but I would never have wished him dead. Poor girl!'

‘I don't know how to tell her.'

‘Do you want me to …?'

Melda shook her head. ‘It's up to me, but I am not relishing the thought of it.'

The girl took it better than any of them had thought, weeping for only a very short time and then saying she wanted to be on her own and going up to her room. None of them was surprised, however, that she did not appear the following day, and it was the day after that before she came down for something to eat. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face was puffed, her movements were slow and unsteady, but her voice was firm. ‘I'm going to London.'

‘What?' her mother, father and grandmother exclaimed almost in unison.

‘I'm going to London,' she repeated. ‘You'll manage fine without me at the mill, and I want to make use of what I learned at University, so I'm going to volunteer for the ambulance service.'

‘You don't need to go to London for that,' Ruairidh pointed out. ‘You could be somewhere much nearer home.'

‘I want to be in the thick of it,' she said, looking round at them defiantly, although tears were glistening in her eyes. ‘I have to do something to … keep my mind off …' Her voice broke.

Her father would have argued, but her mother laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Are you sure that is what you want to do?'

‘Positive!' She looked directly at Ruairidh. ‘I'm old enough now not to need your permission.'

He nodded sadly. ‘Yes, of course you are, and I will not stand in your way. I shall have the house in Piccadilly made ready for you to use any time you need it.'

‘Thanks, Dad.'

Only two days later, Dorothea Bruce-Lyall was in London, volunteering as an ambulance driver, and Melda's life revolved around her daughter's letters.

The Allies had eventually gained a proper toehold in Normandy when the last of the ‘war-babes' was delivered. As Campbell Scott, the dominie, remarked, ‘This school is going to burst at the seams in five years.'

Contrary to what Marianne had feared, there had been very little scandal, because almost every girl had been involved in some way with the ever-changing series of lusty fresh-faced youths who had invaded the glen. In some cases, the boys had done the initiating, but in just as many, the girls had made the running. The women – except those who were too old and withered to be interested – had gone for the more mature men, the NCOs and officers, who were every bit as avid for sex as the rank and file. So it would have been the pot calling the kettle black if any snide remarks had been passed. They were all in the same boat – with the exception of the wives of the dominie, the doctor, the minister and the laird, who, although they may have been tempted, had foregone the pleasure – and many of them were dreading the day when their husbands or boyfriends would come home.

‘The end of the war's going to be the telling time,' Marianne remarked to Flora Mowatt.

‘The telling time?'

‘The day of reckoning. Quite a few men will be coming home to find their wives have had children by somebody else. There'll be hell to pay.'

‘So there should be,' Flora said grimly. ‘When a woman marries, she pledges herself to her husband for life.'

‘And he pledges himself to her,' Marianne retorted drily, ‘and I bet most of them have been having a high old time with the
mademoiselles
and
Fräuleins
, yet they'll hit the roof about their wives being unfaithful to them.'

‘What would you have done if you thought Hamish had been unfaithful to you?'

Marianne shrugged. ‘I wouldn't have been too happy, but if he'd made another son, I'd have forgiven him.'

The doctor's wife shook her head. ‘I couldn't be like that. If I thought Robert had made love to another woman, I'd want to kill him … then I'd kill myself.'

‘To be honest,' Marianne admitted, ‘I'd have been pleased in one way and angry in another. It must be terrible to know you've been betrayed. Still, there's not much fear of Ruairidh going off the straight and narrow. Nor Robert,' she added hastily.

Melda's fears were to be realized more quickly than she had imagined. Only seven short weeks and five short letters after Dorrie's departure, they received the official notification of her death. The officer in charge, the man who must have written a number of similar communications, praised her sterling work, her bravery and dedication in even the most horrendous of air raids, but there really was no easy way for him to tell them. Dorrie had apparently been helping to rescue some children in a building next door to one which had received a direct hit, when a wall caved in on top of
her. It had taken several hours for them to get her out, but mercifully, the letter went on, she had not suffered. She had died instantly.

Melda did not believe this, but, as she pointed out to her husband, it was kind of the man to try to shield them from the truth. Once again, as at the time of Ranald's death, they clung to each other for comfort, and although their inevitable coupling was perhaps not so ardent as it had been then, it still afforded them some solace.

Feeling somewhat excluded, Marianne went to talk to Flora Mowatt. ‘They've no time for me,' she complained. ‘I miss Dorrie just as much as they do.'

Flora patted her hand. ‘Of course you do, Marianne, dear, but she
was
their daughter.'

After a moment's thought, Marianne said, ‘Yes, I can see the point you're making. When we lost Ranald, Hamish and I were like young lovers again. I wouldn't have come through that if it hadn't been for him … and now I've nobody.'

‘Don't get maudlin, my dear, it doesn't suit you.' Flora knew how to treat her old friend. ‘You have Robert and me, and all the people in Glendarril know how you are feeling and sympathize.'

‘Yes, I suppose so. You're right. I shouldn't feel sorry for myself, when so many of the people in the glen have lost somebody, too.'

‘I know it's little comfort, but time does heal, and until it does, we must carry on as usual.'

Time did eventually not heal, exactly, but blunt the edge of the Bruce-Lyalls' grief, and life went on, though not quite the same as before.

The people of Glendarril did not bring 1945 in with their usual vigour. All reports from the war fronts grew more encouraging by the day, and what Marianne had called the ‘telling time' – the day of reckoning – was looming ever closer for those women who had taken their pleasure where they could, which is how she thought of them, although Robert Mowatt regarded them as poor unfortunates. But, whichever way they judged themselves, the women understood that Nemesis was about to catch up with them, and the doctor was kept busy prescribing pills and powders for ailments brought on by nerves.

At precisely six o'clock on 8 May, the day on which Churchill had announced the end of hostilities, Robert took an unprecedented step. Having heard the steady tramp of feet going round to the side door, he thought dismally that he'd be lucky if he finished consulting by bedtime, and when he entered the waiting room to summon his first patient, he could have screamed. The place was filled to capacity! A second glance, however, told him that there was not one man there, and a marvellous idea struck him. They were all suffering from the same guilt and anxiety because their sins would soon be laid bare, so why shouldn't he attempt mass treatment?