Authors: Gwen Kirkwood
‘What are you two talking about? What have you done to upset him, Janet?’ her mother demanded sharply, when she was close enough to see the emotion on Andrew’s face, the lines of strain as he struggled to summon a smile.
‘We have much to talk about, Mama,’ he managed cheerfully, ‘and I am not the least upset. We were – we were laughing about Fingal staying with us at the schoolhouse.’
Janet would have enjoyed her brief stay at the manse and the kindly ministrations of Mrs Drummond, if her heart had not felt so heavy with sorrow. The following morning she was astonished when the Reverend Drummond presented her with a card bearing her full name of Janet Mairi Scott.
‘This is from the savings bank, my dear. It is in your name and I have taken the opportunity of putting in one shilling. It is my gift to you. Now….’ he held up a hand to silence Janet’s surprised protest. ‘You know I encourage all my parishioners to save what little they can. Thrift and independence … your grandfather, and your father, approved of these qualities.’
‘But I must earn money myself, especially now….’ The minister nodded, knowing she was thinking of her brother and the hopes and dreams her mother had invested in him.
‘You will earn money. I shall see to that,’ he said firmly. ‘Now do you think you could ride behind me if I take you back to Braeheights Farm on my horse? Doddi is a sturdy beast. He carries me all the way to Dumfries and home again when I go to edit my newspaper. I’m sure he will not notice your light weight. It would be much quicker than the trap and I wish to speak with Mistress Foster and her husband. After her next baby has been born, and Mistress Foster has regained her strength, if you wish to leave Braeheights Farm, I will keep my ears open for a more suitable posting for you, but until then….’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It is a pity, a great pity, that your education was cut so short.’
‘Andrew gave me a book to read,’ she told him eagerly. ‘I shall treasure it, for there are no books at Braeheights Farm except the family Bible. He said this was one of his favourite books. It was a gift from Fingal McLaughlan. He saved up all his spare farthings to buy it for Andrew. It is a book of poems by a man called Robert Burns.’
‘Indeed? May I see?’ The minister took the leather-bound book and turned it over in his hands. ‘I met Mr Burns once at my father’s house when I was a young man, and he was well acquainted with my wife’s family.’
‘He must have been a clever man. Andrew says he died at a young age. Was he a good man?’
‘My own father considered him a genius. You will enjoy reading his poetry, child. It was thoughtful of young Fingal to purchase such a gift.’
Barely four weeks later, Janet returned to the village of Rowanbank to attend Andrew’s funeral. She had no suitable clothes for a funeral and her mother had not written or made any mention of what she should wear. It was Mrs Foster who offered to lend her own best black skirt and shawl. The skirt was too long and too wide, for Hannah Foster had been sturdier when it had been purchased several years previously.
‘Maybe ye could tack up the bottom and take out the stitches when ye come back, lassie. We will pin the waist. It is the best we can do.’
‘Thank you, Mistress Foster,’ Janet said huskily, struggling to swallow the lump in her throat and hold back her tears. Surely her own mother should have thought of what she could wear.
This time, Wull Foster drove her to the funeral himself in the pony and trap. He was determined she would spend no more nights at the manse. He intended to see she returned to Braeheights Farm as soon as her brother’s funeral was over.
Fingal was at the funeral with his mother and Peggy and Donald Baird. Peggy shook her head in dismay when she saw Janet dressed in Mistress Foster’s skirt and shawl with the shabby black hat almost swamping her pale face. She looked like a bairn
at Halloween, dressed up as a witch. She hugged her close and her own tears mingled with Janet’s. When she drew away Fingal took Janet’s hands in his.
‘If only I could care for you and take you away from that place where you work so hard, Janet. The Reverend Drummond told me it is no life for a girl like you up at the farm. It is not what your grandfather would have wanted for you. It grieved Andrew that he was unable to provide a better life for you and your mother.’
‘I know,’ Janet whispered over the lump in her throat. Fingal put one arm around her shoulders and she leaned closer, finding comfort from his warmth and strength.
‘If only I had enough money to rent a cottage for you, instead of living in lodgings.’ He looked down at her bowed head tenderly. ‘Even if I earned enough to provide food and clothes….’ Fingal muttered. ‘I ought to have been a dominie as your grandfather hoped Andrew would be.’
‘Please do not worry about me, Fingal. One day you will be a lawyer with enough money for all your needs. That is what Mr Saunders told your mother and Mama Peggy. They are very proud of your education.’
‘I know, but it has taken so long, and I am still only earning the wages of a clerk.’ He had to release her when the funeral service began in Mr Cole’s small cottage.
The churchyard was more than a mile from the village and Fingal wished he could have stayed with Janet but he knew he should feel honoured to be asked to take one of the cords, which would lower his friend into his grave. Mary Scott and Janet had no male relations of their own to ask, so Mr Cole and some of the elders would hold cords too. Usually the women stayed at home while the men attended to the burial, but the Scotts had no home and Mary Scott seemed barely aware of what was going on around her and oblivious to her white-faced daughter’s sorrow as the coffin was borne away.
Wull Foster was impatient to get Janet back into his pony and trap and he could hardly wait for the coffin to be placed onto the horse-drawn hearse.
‘Give Miss Janet a little time alone with her mother, and
her friends. Allow them to comfort each other,’ the Reverend Drummond intervened brusquely before he turned to follow the other men and the coffin on its last journey.
Wull Foster’s only response was a scowl but Janet knew the minister was one of the few men he held in awe. She remembered how disgruntled he had been the morning the minister had accompanied her back to Braeheights Farm and ordered that she must be paid the wages which were due to her. Wull Foster had made relatively little fuss in the minister’s presence, but he had been furious when he discovered the Reverend Drummond had taken charge of the money, intending to lodge it in the village savings bank on Janet’s behalf.
Foster had known then that the minister was a shrewd judge of men and that he had guessed his intention of taking the money back at the first opportunity once the minister had gone on his way.
Mary Scott seemed remote from grief. She had had time to see the approach of Andrew’s death, but Janet sensed that her mother’s spirit, her reason for living, had gone with his death. Janet wished with all her heart that she could stay with her mother, but there was neither room nor work for her at the tailor’s cottage.
‘’Tis time we were on our way,’ Wull Foster insisted, grasping Janet’s arm. ‘Ye’ve spoken tae your mither.’
‘B-but….’ Peggy came then and hugged her tightly, reluctant to let her return to Braeheights at all and especially so soon.
‘Fingal will be sorry you have gone,’ she whispered. ‘He had hoped to talk with you, Janet.’ Both Peggy and her husband, Donald, assured her of a warm welcome if she could visit them on her day off, but there never seemed to be any time for leisure.
It was on the return journey to the farm that Janet felt her first real fear of Wull Foster. He had insisted she should sit up at the front beside him on the bench seat. Usually she sat on one of the side benches of the trap with Molly or the boys on their way to church.
The summer evening was calm and warm but as soon as they had left the cottages behind and started on the lonely track up the hill to Braeheights Farm, Foster reached out an arm and pulled
her close to him, almost suffocating her against his chest. He had taken her by surprise and for a moment she had to cling to him to keep her balance on the narrow seat. When she tried to pull away his arm tightened.
‘I ken ye’ll be needing comfort, lassie. Never fear, I’ll look after ye.’
‘No! No, I’m fine. Please let me go….’
‘There now, there’s no need to take on so. Ye’re safe enough wi’ me, I tell ye.’ But Janet didn’t feel safe. Hadn’t Joe warned her never to go anywhere alone with his father? Today she had had no choice. She struggled to be free but instead of releasing her, he relinquished the reins, knowing the pony would continue up the familiar track. He pushed his wife’s hat from her head, heedless as it rolled onto the dusty floor of the trap. He began to stroke her hair with his free hand while the arm tightened around her shoulders. The more she struggled, the tighter he held her. He thrust his hand inside her shawl and his rough fingers fondled her small breast through the cotton of her shift and her blouse. Her heart raced in panic.
‘Let me go! Let go of me!’ she shouted furiously. He saw the fire in her eyes and the twin patches of angry colour in her cheeks and he laughed aloud.
‘My, my, I can see ye’ve got spirit. I like a woman wi’ some fight in her.’ Janet managed to pull one arm free and she began to beat against him but it was like hitting a log of wood, so little effect did her small fist have on him. His only reaction was to squeeze painfully at her breast so that she gasped and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘That’s better now,’ he growled hoarsely. ‘Ye’ll find it does no good to fight wi’ me. It’s a fine evening for a roll in the hedgerow.’
A loud whoop from the hedge startled the pony and almost jerked Foster and Janet from the seat. A moment later, Joe and Luke appeared on the other side of the hedge.
‘What the devil! What d’ye think ye’re doing?’ their father bellowed.
‘Catching rabbits for a stew,’ Joe called, holding up two furry bodies. ‘Tis a lovely evening. Would ye no like tae walk with us across the field, Miss Janet? The air would be good for ye after – well, after everything.’
‘Yes! Yes, I’d like that.’ Janet stood up with relief. Wull Foster had little option but to draw the pony to a halt and let her down, but his face was purple with rage.
Janet never discovered whether Joe had been in the fields beside the track by accident that evening, or whether he guessed what tricks his father might try, but she was filled with gratitude. The boys never forgot she was the old dominie’s granddaughter. They treated her with respect and called her Miss Janet, but that evening she could have hugged them in her relief.
Instead of improving, Mrs Foster’s health seemed to be getting steadily worse and Janet believed Molly’s listless and tearful state must be due to her mother’s condition and the extra burden of work which fell to both of them. There was a tension in the household and Mr Foster’s presence only increased it. Janet hated the way he watched every move she made as she served his meals or washed the floor. She wanted to tell him to go away. He seemed to
think his wife should shake off her ill health as if it was a cold. As for Molly, his eyes glittered angrily whenever he saw her drooping shoulders and her drawn face.
Towards the end of September, the mellow autumn weather gave way to lashing rain accompanied by high winds.
‘This will bring the tides up frae the Solway Firth,’ Wull Foster muttered. ‘There’ll be floods before ’tis over.’ There were often storms and floods in the autumn and spring so no one paid attention to him, or so it seemed.
The storm was still raging during the following night and Janet was wakened by the creaks and groans of the sturdy farmhouse. The door to her own small chamber had never latched securely and a sudden draught blew it further ajar, making the old hinges creak. She was sure the gust must have been caused by someone opening the back door but she was afraid to get up and check in case she met Mr Foster. She hated the way he eyed her, as though his eyes could see through her clothes. She snuggled down and went to sleep, exhausted as always by the day’s work.
Early the next morning, Janet had raked out the cinders and lit the fire in the big black range when Joe put his head around the outer door. The wind still howled and smoke came belching out of the chimney, making her eyes sting.
‘Our Molly hasna come oot tae the milking, Janet. Can ye come and give us a hand? Please…?’ Joe always tried to speak politely to her but his accent was stronger when he was excited or upset. He looked dreadfully pale, almost ill himself, and the look of pleading in his dark eyes tore at Janet’s heart. He tackled a man’s work on the farm and, although he was almost as tall as his father now, he was even younger than herself, not yet fourteen. His young face looked strained and weary.
‘I’ll just set the water over the fire to boil, ready for the porridge, then I’ll come out to the byre.’ She frowned as she took in his red-rimmed eyes. The pallor of his face seemed to accentuate the hollows beneath his cheekbones. ‘Are you all right, Joe…?’
‘Aye,’ he snapped. Janet frowned. Joe always treated her kindly and rarely snapped at anyone except his father. Something was bothering him, however much he denied it.
The porridge was not ready when Wull Foster came into the kitchen after attending to his horses. He swore loudly, thumped the table with his spoon and demanded his breakfast immediately. Janet’s eyes grew bright with anger but she clamped her small teeth against her lower lip and bent over the fire, stirring the blackened pan, willing the porridge to cook more quickly. Still the wind howled in the chimney, blowing the fire back at her instead of drawing up the flames and kindling the embers to the glowing red she needed to cook.
It was Luke who spoke up. ‘Janet helped us with the milking. She canna be in twae places at once.’
‘And why did ye need her at the milking? Where’s your lazy bitch of a sister?’
Luke scowled back at his father.
‘Well? Answer me! Is she still in her bed?’
‘I-I think Molly must be sick again, Mr Foster,’ Janet said. ‘I will take her a dish of porridge when it is ready. Maybe she will feel better then.’ Janet hated when the family quarrelled; it reminded her of Dominie Todd and the last scene in her grandfather’s house.
‘Good God! Trying her mother’s tricks, is she? Eating in bed! Acting like ladies!’ he thundered in disgust. He scraped his chair back on the flagged floor and pushed himself to his feet. Hastily Janet ladled a bowl of steaming porridge and set it before him.
‘Y-yours is ready now. I’ll just bring a jug of milk from the dairy….’
‘Here’s the milk.’ Joe came into the kitchen carrying the large tin jug. He set it down in front of his father with a thump so that some of it sloshed over the side. His father swore at him. Joe straightened, drawing himself to his full height, his eyes glittering.
‘Ye ken fine what’s wrong.’ He outstared his father, his face full of contempt. ‘Ye’ve done the same to our Molly as ye did tae the other maids and they….’ Before he could finish, his father lashed out with the back of his hand. He caught Joe a stinging blow against the side of his head, sending him reeling across the kitchen. Janet gasped and ran to Joe but he regained his feet instantly. He rushed towards the table. But stopped just out of his father’s reach.
‘If you ever raise your hand to me again,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘I’ll swing for ye.’
‘You’ll…?’ Wull Foster gave an explosive guffaw. ‘You and how many men, lad? Wait till ye’ve grown a bit afore ye start threatening me. Now get your porridge down ye. There’s work to be done after the storm. And you,’ he raised his eyes to Janet, ‘get up the stairs and tell that lazy bitch I want her down here and ready to work. Now!’
Janet bit her lip but when she had ladled the rest of the porridge she climbed the wooden steps to the small loft room where Molly slept. There was a hump in the bed and Janet moved to give her friend a gentle shake. The hump was a pillow stuffed under the blankets. There was no sign of Molly. Janet returned to the kitchen.
‘M-Molly isn’t there.’
‘Not there? Where is she, then?’ Wull Foster growled. ‘If she’s not in her bed why wasn’t she at the milking?’ He looked from Joe to Janet, to Luke and to Mark. They all looked back in silence.
‘She’ll be in beside the other two brats. Adam! John!’ he bellowed loudly.
‘We’re coming, Da,’ two small boys chorused.
‘Molly was not in with them,’ Janet said quietly. ‘I looked.’ She felt anxious and uneasy. ‘I’ll take some porridge in to Mrs Foster.’
Janet hoped Molly might have crept in beside her mother, or that Mrs Foster would know where she was. Her uneasiness increased when she saw the look of fear and despair which leapt into the older woman’s eyes when she heard Molly had left the house.
‘I-I thought I heard the door open during the night,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Do you think Molly would go outside? To the closet, maybe?’ But why had she not returned?
‘She’s gone. Ma poor bairn.’ Mrs Foster’s words were no more than a whisper. Janet was not sure whether she had heard properly, or whether she was meant to hear at all. Mrs Foster pushed away her porridge and began to weep, rocking backwards and forwards as though she was in pain.
All thoughts of mending the hinges on the stable door, or the
hole in the cart-shed roof, or clearing up the debris left by the storm, were cast aside. Wull Foster set his four oldest sons to search for Molly while he himself paced up and down the yard, and in and out of the house, like a caged lion. He blustered and uttered dire threats for when he set eyes on Molly. Janet was left to soothe the babies and try to coax Mrs Foster to eat a morsel of food. There were the daily chores of washing and cleaning, peeling potatoes, making beds and emptying chamber pots. Mrs Foster dragged herself around the house like a large, rudderless ship, unable to concentrate, even on the needs of her youngest child.
Janet could not dispel her uneasiness. Was it Molly who had opened the door and crept out into the night? Where could she have gone? Janet felt that Mrs Foster and Joe both knew why Molly had gone, even if they were not sure where.
‘Could Molly have gone to her grandmother’s?’ she suggested tentatively when the boys and their father came in at midday for bowls of the hot thick soup she had prepared. There was no bread or plain scone. Mrs Foster had not felt well enough to bake any and she had been too busy trying to do all the other household tasks and attend to the demands of the younger Fosters.
‘I’ll harness the pony and get off down to her grandmother’s!’ Wull Foster declared. ‘Why didn’t ye think o’ it before? I expect that’s where the brat is hiding. Causing all this trouble….’ But Janet saw the expression on Joe’s face and her heart sank. She guessed Joe knew they would not find Molly there. But she had to be somewhere. Why had she run away when her mother needed her so badly? They all needed her. Janet felt near to tears with exhaustion and anxiety by the time she went to bed.
It was nothing compared to the weariness which claimed her in the days and nights to follow as she struggled to cope with the never-ending chores, and still no sign of Molly.
Mrs Foster was doing her best to help with the daily tasks but it was obvious to everyone except her husband that she was ill. Each day she seemed worse. What little spirit she had shown before had been quenched since Molly left.
‘Has Mr Foster told the minister?’ Janet ventured. ‘Perhaps
some of the elders would help…? Spread the word…?’
‘Oh no, lassie! Dinna mention this to the minister. There’s shame enough….’ Hannah Foster broke off and bit her lip, but as she turned away Janet saw tears squeezing from her puffy eyes.
‘I’ve never felt this bad before,’ she gasped a few minutes later. She was struggling to catch her breath after picking up a small nightgown she had dropped.
‘Pull yoursel’ together, woman!’ Wull Foster stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the wash house. ‘If your face gets any fatter we’ll never see your eyes,’ he taunted. ‘Ye’re lying in bed o’er long. There’s no good fretting o’er the wee bitch, I tell ye. She’ll come running back home when she’s hungry….’
‘You talk about ma poor bairn as though she’s a stray dog!’ his wife flared with unexpected spirit. Janet looked from one to the other, scooped up the baby and made for the door to the yard, but not before she had heard Wull Foster’s growled retort.
‘She’s less use than a stray dog! Get on wi’ your work. There’s nae wonder ye canna get your feet into your clogs. Ye canna even get intae mine!’ He glared down at his wife’s swollen feet clad in thick woollen socks.
Molly Foster did not come home to plead for a crust of bread, or anything else. Three weeks after she had left Braeheights Farm, a man came to the house, asking to speak to Mr Foster. The two men talked, then left the farm together. There was tension in the house. Even the baby sensed it. Joe’s face was white and pinched. Janet heard him speaking in a low voice.
‘D’ye think they’ve found her, Ma?’
‘I pray it wasna her. Not like that…. Please God not like that….’
It was the following morning when Joe came to join Janet as she was hanging washing in the cold October wind.
‘They’ve found our Molly’s body,’ he said in a strained voice.
‘Body? Oh no!’ Janet spun to face him. ‘Oh no, Joe….’
‘Aye.’ He nodded dully. ‘Aye, ’twas her. The man … yesterday. He took
him
.’ His lip curled in contempt and Janet knew he meant his father. ‘He … he identified her. She must have walked miles
the night o’ the storm….’ His voice choked and he gulped down the knot of emotion. ‘She must have jumped in the river….’
‘Jumped? Into the river…?’ Janet stared at Joe’s white face in horror.
‘A fisherman found her. Swept against the roots o’ a tree. L-left by the flood.’
‘No! I c-can’t believe….’ Janet began to cry. She couldn’t help it. Joe moved towards her and patted her awkwardly. He had cried half the night himself but he would never admit it to anyone but Luke.
Janet turned into the circle of his thin arm and sobbed. ‘There must be a mistake…?’ she pleaded.
‘She said she … she’d do it. But she didna ken how….’ He shuddered. ‘I didna think she’d go for the river…. She was aye feart o’ the water.’
‘B-but why…? Why…?’ Janet shook her head in bewilderment.
‘’Twas his fault. One day I’ll … I’ll do for him!’ Joe said, his young jaw clenched, his teeth gritted in anger. ‘’Twas him gave her the bairn.’
‘B-bairn?’ Janet drew back and stared up into Joe’s white face. Molly’s sickness, her moods of black despair, her swelling stomach…. Still Janet stared into Joe’s face, wide eyed with shock, realizing at last…. She shuddered, remembering how Wull Foster had grabbed at her on the way back from Andrew’s funeral. Now she understood the change in Molly from her happy, carefree schoolfriend. Now she understood why she had wanted to run away.
Later that night Janet wrote a letter to the minister, asking him to find her a place to live and to work, anywhere away from Braeheights Farm and Mr Foster. She knew it was no use writing to her mother. Mary Scott was a shadow of her former self since Andrew’s death. Her reason for living had gone the day Andrew was laid to rest beside their father. Janet’s thoughts went round and round in circles; she was alone. It was true, Mrs Foster and the little ones needed her. The thought weighed her down with guilt. But she knew the truth about Molly now. She shivered. Fingal had been right. She must get away from here.
Janet planned to give her letter to the Reverend Drummond when they went to the kirk but she discovered Wull Foster had no intention of letting any of them attend the kirk until the wagging tongues found someone else to talk about. She was dismayed. She tucked her letter beneath her mattress and resolved to go to the kirk herself. She would walk there. The winter days were short and cold now, but desperation fuelled her determination. Surely she could find her way over the fields and through the wood in the daylight? Perhaps Fingal would accompany her part of the way back? Did he come home for the Sabbath? If only she could see him, he would pass her letter to the Reverend Drummond.