The Good Provider (6 page)

Craig seated himself on the grass, unwrapped his bread and cheese and bit into the sandwich. He did not glance at his father but sniffed, trying to catch the whiff of spirits, the old man’s musk. The faint sharpness was there, as usual. Craig sighed and watched a pair of buzzards away above the hill turn slow, soft and heavy on the pale currents of air. Something had brought his father here, something more than companionability or the desire to inspect the fence. Craig munched bread and cheese, sucked tea from the bottle, kept silent.

At length Bob said, ‘I think she’s gone to the Baird.’

Craig said, ‘What would she have gone there for? She’s safer with us, is she not?’

‘Not Kirsty; your mother.’

‘Mam?’

‘Aye. I saw her best coat laid out, an’ her Sunday hat. She’s headed for somewhere special. My guess is she’s catchin’ the train to Maybole to seek “official advice”.’ Bob paused. ‘I’m not inebriated, son.’

‘I never said you were.’

‘I haven’t lost my reason, either.’

‘Just what
are
you drivin’ at?’

‘She’ll have the lass back with Clegg before the day’s out.’

‘I’ll not allow it.’

‘When her mind’s made up you – not even you – can stop her.’

‘Christ! Do you know what Clegg’ll do if he gets Kirsty back?’

‘I can well imagine,’ said Bob.

‘I’ll throttle the bastard before I’ll see that happen.’

The movement was small. Bob dipped two fingers into his breast pocket and plucked out what appeared to be a spill of paper. He offered it casually to Craig.

‘What’s that?’

‘Money. Four five-pound notes.’

Craig stopped chewing and, hands on knees, leaned forward and peered at the spill suspiciously. ‘What in God’s name are you doin’ with twenty quid?’

‘It’s for you.’

‘What for?’

‘Take the lass an’ get out of here,’ Bob Nicholson said. ‘Go before your mam gets back.’

‘Ach, Dad. I could never—’

‘Heed my advice, Craig. If you love this girl—’

‘I’m not sure I – Look, let’s wait an’ see what happens.’

‘If you wait, son, you’ll be done for – like me.’

‘You haven’t done so bad.’

‘Aye, but I haven’t done so well, have I?’

Craig watched the banknotes wag before him.

Bob Nicholson said, ‘Take them, damn it.’

‘Where did you get such a sum?’

‘From Mr Sanderson.’

‘He loaned you twenty pounds?’

‘It’s the burial fund, if you must know.’

‘You cashed your burial fund! Mam’ll go mad when she finds out.’

Bob Nicholson shrugged again as if his wife’s temper was a bagatelle, her anger of no consequence at all.

Craig drew closer to his father. Squatting on his heels, the bottle and the heel of bread tossed aside, he peered into the man’s watery blue eyes. He could not be sure how seriously he was supposed to take the offer and the advice. He had been given bibulous nonsense in lieu of parental help in the past but this time he felt a deep underlying urgency that the old man’s diffident manner could not quite hide.

‘You mean it, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Sure as death, I mean it.’

‘But why?’

‘To get you out of Dalnavert. To get you away from here,’ Bob Nicholson said. ‘You’ll not have a better chance, a better motive. If you even
think
you’re in love wi’ that pretty lassie from Hawkhead now’s the time to act on it. If you stay, it’ll be killed.’

‘What’ll be killed?’

‘Happiness. Opportunity. How the hell do I know? Look, take the money, pack a grip, grab the lassie and get on a train.’

‘Mr Sanderson – the plantin’—’

‘Bankhead’s been here for five generations. The field was here ten thousand bloody years ago. It’ll survive without your supervision for ten thousand more.’ Bob Nicholson’s diffidence collapsed into a show of temper. He scrambled to his feet, thrust the banknotes into Craig’s face. ‘Take them, damn you. Take them an’ use them. Go to Glasgow. Make a decent life for yourself.’

Craig stared at his father in disbelief. Never before had he heard his father speak so forcefully. It was a kind of defiance, an authority that Craig associated with his mother and not the man. He was astonished by it, dismayed too. He did not know how to respond.

‘Stand up, son.’

Craig got to his feet.

‘Here,’ Bob Nicholson said.

Craig closed his fist on the spill of paper money. It felt strange, new, refined in his dirty fingers.

‘What can I do in Glasgow? My job’s here.’

‘Do you want to condemn Kirsty Barnes, as well as yourself?’ Bob said.

‘Condemn?’

‘
Think, for God’s sake
.’

Craig nodded. Without being able to put it into words he understood what his father meant. It was not just Dalnavert’s poor acres or the menial work at Bankhead from which his dad sought to free him, but the woman too, from his mam.

He felt a fierce hollow sadness inside him, a sinking, a fear of his ability to cope without the woman behind him.

‘But Kirsty might not—’

‘We’ll go back to Dalnavert right now and ask her.’

‘Well—’

‘If she’s in agreement, will you go?’

If he’d had leisure to consider the proposal then Craig would have refused. But he churned with need of Kirsty Barnes and wove his desires into belief that he was doing it for her, to save her. He felt noble, like a martyr, and, with the quick responses of youth, switched himself to the new track, accepting the adventure of it. The twenty-pound stake made all the difference. He would not have had the gumption to break away from Dalnavert on his own account or the urge to scrimp and save a travelling fund. In a flash he saw how shrewd his father had been and felt a wary sort of gratitude towards the man.

‘If Kirsty is willin’,’ Craig said, ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Without hesitation, without turnin’ back?’

‘Aye.’

‘Before your mam gets home?’

Craig paused before he answered. ‘I could never face her wi’ that sort of news, Dad.’

Bob Nicholson said, ‘There’s a train from Dunnet station at twenty minutes past three o’clock.’

‘If Kirsty agrees, we’ll be on it.’

‘Good man,’ Bob Nicholson said.

Reaction to the events of the previous evening had made her weary, Kirsty decided. She did not feel comfortable in the Nicholsons’ cottage and, after she had done the chores, she seated herself in a chair by the fire and tried to relax. She was certainly tired. She ached as if she had had an influenza and jumped nervously at every small sound outside.

She took the liberty of making herself a pot of tea and ate a slice of bread and butter but denied herself jam, in case Mrs Nicholson thought it ‘an imposition’ upon her hospitality. About one o’clock, or shortly after, sitting upright in the chair, her fingers clenched about the wooden arms, Kirsty fell into a light sleep. When, an hour later, the kitchen door crashed open she almost died of fright. She threw herself out of sleep and out of the chair with a cry.

‘It’s me, only me,’ Craig said, alarmed at the distress his entry had caused her. ‘Did you think it was Clegg?’

‘Yes, yes, I did.’

She felt weepy again but the sight of Craig gave her relief and when he took her hands in his and drew her to him she calmed at once and laid her head against his shoulder to be soothed. It was only then that she noticed Mr Nicholson in the doorway. He did not seem to disapprove of the show of affection, but to be pleased by it.

‘Ask her, son,’ he said quietly.

Craig separated himself from her.

Kirsty felt a peculiar apprehension come over her at his frown and the manner in which he pursed his lips. He did not seem to know what to do with his hands. He did not speak a word until he had finally folded his forearms under his armpits and found a spot on the floor that suited him. He was, she noticed, still dressed for field work, damp with sweat, his jacket draped about his shoulders like a little cloak.

‘Go on, Craig,’ Mr Nicholson urged. ‘Ask her.’

‘Dad’s given me money, enough for us to go to Glasgow,’ Craig said. ‘If you want to leave here. I mean, we’ll be properly married as soon as we can. In the meantime, I mean – Look, I’ll marry you, Kirsty, as soon as we’re settled in the city. I mean, I’m not just—’

‘You’ll be safer in Glasgow, lass,’ Bob Nicholson told her.

Craig stumbled on. ‘We would be goin’ without prospects,’ he said, ‘but it would be safer, Kirsty, than remainin’ here.’

‘But Mr Clegg – I’m articled to him, am I not?’

‘Damn Clegg!’ Craig exploded. ‘It’s me or it’s Clegg. Make up your mind.’

‘Son, son, have you no savvy?’ said Bob Nicholson. ‘Never mind the long story. Ask her nicely. That’ll do it.’

‘Aye, right.’ Craig unfolded his arms, wiped his hands on his thighs and then pressed them together as if he was praying. He did not meet her eye. ‘Eh, Kirsty, will you have me for a husband?’

She heard herself say, ‘
Yes
.’ Before she could even think of it, she said again, ‘
Yes
.’

‘See,’ Bob Nicholson said. ‘Now, son, away an’ pack a few belongin’s. Take the big canvas grip from under my bed. I’ll never use it again.’

Craig nodded. It had become perfunctory all of a sudden. Kirsty longed for more, for a kiss, for his arms about her, for a lingering moment alone with him. It was not how she had envisaged it, curt and sharp-toned and hurried.

She said, ‘I’ve nothin’ but what I stand in.’

Bob Nicholson brushed that complaint aside. ‘You can buy a new dress, stockin’s, shoes, whatever you need, in Glasgow. Craig has money enough for that.’

She glanced round and found that Craig had already gone into the bedroom. She could hear him rummaging about, drawers opening and closing, as he packed his belongings.

To Bob Nicholson Kirsty said, ‘Why are you doin’ this, Mr Nicholson? You hardly know me.’

The man answered, ‘Hardly know you? Why, lass, I’ve watched you grow up, though you might not have guessed it. Besides, Craig’s hardly stopped talkin’ about you for the past ten years. Nah, nah, I’m not sendin’ the boy off with a stranger.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, you’re far too bonnie to do him much harm.’

‘But Mrs Nicholson—’

‘Leave Mrs Nicholson to me.’

Looking down she realised just how ill-clad she was for the trip. Glasgow, she had heard, was a seat of fashion and smartness. She would look like a scarecrow in its streets.

She hesitated. ‘Mr Nicholson, I—’

Bob Nicholson shook his head, amused, perhaps, by her vanity.

She realised with a start that the man had offered all that she had ever wanted without the arduous process of a courtship, with its formal rituals, its frustrations and dangers. All she had wanted for the past five years was to be with Craig.

Hesitantly, Bob Nicholson put an arm around her shoulder. She could smell that antiseptic odour, his whisky aura, though she could not imagine when he had found time to take drink. He seemed perfectly sober and serious as he gave her a brief reassuring pat and, for a moment, drew her to him for a cuddle.

‘Thank you,’ Kirsty whispered.

At that instant Craig entered the kitchen. He lugged a grip of thick brown canvas with a leather binding. It appeared almost new. Kirsty wondered if it belonged to Mr Nicholson, had been purchased in hope, for journeys which had never been made.

‘Got everythin’ you need, son?’

‘Aye. All I can carry.’

‘Get out of here, then,’ Bob Nicholson said.

‘Are you not comin’ to the station?’

‘Nah, nah. I think I’ll put my feet up for half an hour.’

‘I’ll write you letters, Dad.’

An expression of alarm crossed Mr Nicholson’s face. He held up his hand. ‘Don’t write,’ he said. ‘Not till you’re settled.’

‘Will you come up to Glasgow for the weddin’?’

‘Don’t write, not a word,’ was Bob Nicholson’s answer.

There was an awkward pause. Kirsty waited, a little apart from the men. She sensed their reserve, the shyness between them, saw, in the very corner of Bob Nicholson’s eye, the glitter of a tear.

The man did not take his son into his arms. Bob Nicholson was a true-born Scot, an odd mixture of the undemonstrative and the sentimental. He stuck out his hand.

Tense with embarrassment, Craig pumped it and let it go again.

‘Take – take care o’ yourself, Dad.’

‘Never mind me. You be sure to take good care of this wee lass, you hear me?’

‘I will, I promise.’

Craig turned, hoisted up the grip, circled Kirsty’s waist and, sweeping her imperiously before him, left the kitchen of Dalnavert for the last time. He did not, not once, look back.