Turn of the Tide (42 page)

‘I didn’t mean to . . .’ Maggie bit down hard on her lip.

‘Worms don’t feel.’ Sybilla hoped she sounded confident. She poked Maggie in the side, pressing on her ribs. ‘You need bones to feel.’ Peeling the worm from
Maggie’s hand, she stood up. ‘If we put it on the wall, it’ll be food for the birds.’ She tried to think of a way to make it, if not right, at least better. ‘Maybe
even for your sparrow, while she builds her new nest.’ She stretched the worm out. ‘It’s gey long and will make a fine meal.’

Maggie was smiling again, ‘There were lots.’ She tugged at Sybilla, ‘We could get more.’

‘If you wish to stay . . .’ Munro tossed the comment to Maggie as he checked the saddle of Robbie’s pony. ‘We can leave you with Sybilla while the rest of us have a wee
jaunt to the glen.’

Feeling Maggie stiffen and seeing her face begin to crumple, Sybilla gave her another squeeze. ‘He doesn’t mean it. We are all to go, and you . . .’ she swung Maggie up in the
air and set her on Archie’s shoulder, ‘. . . must be our look-out, in case of reivers.’

Munro and Archie kept pace with the Sheltie, which was, though Robbie wouldn’t have admitted it, somewhat fat and and lazy and therefore as safe as a pony could be.

Sybilla watched them, Maggie squealing as Archie, exaggerating the unevenness of the ground, bounced her up and down; Robbie chattering non-stop, his voice high-pitched and carrying in the clear
air. She said, ‘You have a fine brood. I can’t wait.’ And wished her words back.

‘We aren’t the only folk to lose a child . . . Anna will aye be here . . . aye young . . .’ There was a catch in Kate’s voice. ‘It is hard . . . may always be so,
but it is no time since we planned our wedding and now . . . all this.’

She looked back at the tower-house silhouetted against the sky, its jumble of outbuildings about the base. Even from this distance, it had a prosperous, well-tended air, the walls sharp-edged,
the slates even, the thatch of the low buildings trimmed and free from moss.

‘I should be . . . am . . . grateful for what we still have. There was a time when I thought it all lost.’

Ahead of them the children’s voices faded, swallowed by the woods. She took Sybilla’s arm. ‘If we don’t hurry, they will be there and back again and we will have missed
the fun.’

They reached the shade of the trees, the Sheltie tethered beside a track that curved away into the dimness. The ‘glen’ was little more than a gash in the hillside, sheltered from sun
and wind, the ground underfoot springy with moss, ankle-deep in last year’s matted leaves. Occasional spears of sunlight pierced through gaps in the trees, across the narrow path. They caught
glimpses of Robbie flitting in and out of the shadows: now on the path, now disappearing into the undergrowth, now leaping out again with whoops and shouts. Maggie was still on Archie’s
shoulders and Sybilla smiled at his play of surprise each time Robbie jumped him.

‘The bairns love him. Even when . . .’ Kate nibbled her lip. ‘The first time Archie came home from Kilmaurs he wasn’t quite himself, but even then he had time for the
bairns. He’ll make a good father.’

They were almost on them now, Sybilla watching Munro as he pounced on Robbie, growling triumphantly, and carried him wriggling back to the path.

‘As his brother does.’

‘Aye. On a day like this it should be easy to feel fortunate. With family and friends and the leisure to enjoy their company.’ Kate breathed deeply, ‘What right have any of us
to ask for more?’

The path was turning and twisting, following the course of a shallow stream, so that although they were perhaps only a hundred yards behind, there were moments when the woods closed in around
them, magnifying the rustling and scuffling of small creatures in the undergrowth.

‘Where are we headed?’

‘There is a clearing . . .’ Kate broke off. ‘. . . I won’t spoil it for you.’

The stream trickled and bubbled beside them and Sybilla was aware of odd splashing sounds.

‘It isn’t deep enough for fish surely?’

‘You’ll see.’

They rounded a bend in the path and they were in the clearing, in the centre a still pool surrounded by aconites, the yellow flowers a carpet of bright faces lifting to the sun.

Both children were hunkered down at the edge of the water, Archie holding firmly to Maggie’s waist, Munro, one hand on Robbie’s shoulder, pointing downwards. For once the children
were silent and as Sybilla approached, she became aware of a background chirriping, almost like birds: short bursts of high notes, punctuated by lower croaking sounds.

Archie turned his head, his eyes alight. ‘We don’t usually catch them spawning.’

Among the twigs and fallen leaves and spikes of water hawthorn, Sybilla saw the toads, their skin brown and leathery, bulbous lumps like warts scattered across their backs and legs. There were
dozens of them, half in, half out of the water, hanging in pairs: the females clinging to bits of stick or lying on small stones; the males, straddling them, gripping firmly with all four legs,
head resting on head. They seemed to stare into the distance, unblinking, unconcerned by their audience, voicing their pleasure. From the rear of each pair long, gelatinous threads spun out,
coiling and twining on the surface of the water, and inside them the spawn, like double strings of black beads.

‘Shouldn’t it be clumps?’ Sybilla reached into the water, but when she lifted her hand, the spawn slithered through her splayed fingers, leaving only the stickiness across her
skin.

‘Frogs make clumps. Toads make strings.’ Robbie spoke in an ‘everyone should know that’ tone.

‘Can I have some for home?’ Maggie was stretching downwards, guddling in the water, trying to wind a string of spawn around her hand.

‘Not today, sweetheart.’ Munro spread his hands. ‘We have nothing to carry it in.’

She twisted in Archie’s arms.

Robbie said, ‘You’re not here to work, are you, Uncle Archie?’

‘No, though . . .’

‘Well then,’ Robbie was triumphant. ‘You can bring us tomorrow.’

They had a late supper, the children yawning before it was finished, so that Kate shooed them away to bed, ignoring their protests, before repairing to the solar to light the
candles and put a spill to the ready laid fire.

‘It has such a good draw,’ she said as she watched the flames leap against the chimney back, the kindling sparking like firecrackers.

‘It’s a poor show to have my wife take her pleasure from the drawing of a fire.’ Munro, laughing at her, reached down and pulled her to her feet. ‘Approaching elderly you
may be, but not that far gone surely?’

She stepped back a fraction. ‘Not old enough to take to my bed straight from supper.’

Sybilla, glimpsing a wicked retort in Munro’s eyes, avoided looking at Archie, her own breath quickening. She turned the conversation. ‘Robbie played you well Archie. You have little
choice but to go gathering spawn the morn.’

‘Aye, he’s not so daft. Of course . . .’ Archie stretched himself along the front of the hearthstone, and leaned his back against Sybilla’s knees, ‘I would rather
help with the spring clean that no doubt you ladies have planned.’

She tugged at the hair springing on the back of his neck and he tilted his head so that it rested on her lap. ‘I could take the bairns,’ she pulled harder, ‘and you could
redd-out the pantry.’

‘Not if you want a decent dinner.’ Munro was settling himself at the opposite side of the fire. ‘Archie’s idea of redding-out would likely be via his stomach.’

‘Serious though, could the spawn live? You might end up with a plague of toads in your yard.’ There was a wistful note in Sybilla’s voice.

Kate said, ‘Did you never grow tadpoles?

‘Mother didn’t have much truck with foolishness and the breeding of toads would surely have counted as such. Forbye that she didn’t like anything that had more than two legs
and the smaller they were, the less comfortable she was with them.’

‘We tried every spring for years.’ Kate’s eyes had the far-away look of distant memory.

‘With success?’

‘Some years aye, some not. One year we had the tadpoles in a wee trickle of water in a pail in the yard and the next morning water and tadpoles both were frozen solid. I had the idea of
thawing them out in the kettle in the kitchen, but forgot all about them until Agnes poured the kettle into the stewpot.’ Kate’s shoulders began to shake. ‘I didn’t dare say
anything, only prayed that they’d disappear in the boiling or come out like shreds of beef and not be noticed in the gravy.’

‘And did they?’

‘Mostly, though whether they would’ve if I hadn’t mashed and stirred at the pot every time Agnes wasn’t looking, I don’t know. It was hard to eat it though, knowing
what was there.’

‘It was spring when your grand-dame died . . .’ Munro said thoughtfully, ducking as Kate rolled her handkerchief into a ball and tossed it at him. He caught it neatly and lobbed it
back. ‘I dare say it was but coincidence.’

They sat by the fire talking about anything and nothing until the embers burned down to ash. Kate, moving to blow out a candle that had begun to smoke, paused by the window and Munro came to
stand behind her. She leaned into him. ‘I have a notion to walk – not far, just to the top of the hill. It’s such a fine night.’

He was resting his head on top of hers, stroking her hair with his chin. ‘Are you not afraid to walk out with me and the moon is full?’

‘A risk maybe . . . but worth the taking.’ She swivelled round. ‘Sybilla? Archie? It isn’t often we have the leisure to star-gaze.’

Though there was little wind the air was sharp and clear and Sybilla, feeling the bite of it on her skin, expelled her breath like a puff of smoke. She tucked her arms under her shawl.
‘It’s nippier than I expected.’

Archie said, ‘I can keep you warm . . . for a small consideration.’

‘I haven’t much silver.’ She knotted the shawl.

‘Then I’ll have to take payment in kind.’ He bent his head and she reached up for him, their breath curling together, the taste of him sweet on her tongue.

Ahead of them, the path wound through gorse and bramble, voices floating backwards: snippets of phrases; Munro’s low chuckle, Kate’s higher, musical laugh.

‘It will be a fine thing,’ Archie trailed the back of his hand along Sybilla’s neck. ‘When we have nine years of marriage to our credit and still be sweet.’

She felt a catch in her throat and a stinging behind her eyes. ‘It is a fine thing already and will be finer still to be married at all.’ She sucked in an involuntary shiver, as if
it was a sliver of ice stabbing her chest, ‘We should catch up, else they’ll be crying us home before ever we make the top.’

‘Or we could wait here . . .’ Archie gestured to a patch of shadow a few yards from the path, in the shelter of an overhang.

‘I have a reputation to think on.’

‘Do you not trust me?’ His eyes were dark, the pupils distended.

‘I don’t trust myself.’

They broke through the gorse onto the open hillside, scrambling the last few feet to where Munro and Kate leant against a slab of rock, softened with lichen.

Sybilla sank down beside Kate, pressing her hand to her side. Below them, Broomelaw reared like a standing stone, rugged, secure, the slates slicked silver by the moonlight, the barmkin wall
casting a curving shadow towards the loch. Kate cocked her head and raised her finger to her mouth. A soft splash carried to them through the stillness, as a fish broke the surface of the
water.