Читать книгу The Teacher at Donegal Bay - Anne Doughty, Anne Doughty - Страница 11
ОглавлениеGeorge opened his eyes. The log cracked again in the fire and a spark arced through the air and struck the log basket. Lucky it didn’t get as far as the new rug, he thought, as he straightened himself up and reached for the polished brass poker. Edna would not be well pleased if she came home and found a scorch mark on it and the fire so low it was almost out.
He’d been thinking about the specifications for those new tractors Bertie had brought back from the exhibition in Birmingham and the next thing he knew he was away back in Ballymena fitting a new axle on a traction engine with old Willie Prentice. Years ago that was. The only place you’d see that engine now was in a museum. Wasn’t it funny the things that came back to you if you nodded off for a minute or two after your lunch.
He glanced at the clock. It was nearly three. Surely he hadn’t slept that long. He leaned over for another log without getting out of his chair. He tried to place it in the hottest part of the glowing embers but the pain caught him unexpectedly and the log fell short.
‘Bad luck, George, you should’ve stood up in the first place,’ he said aloud. He put a hand to his chest and straightened his shoulders cautiously. ‘And if that’s the way the wind’s blowing you’d better take your pills and forget all about hoeing that rose bed.’
He stood up awkwardly, clutched at the back of his well-worn wing chair and waited for his knee joints to respond to the call for action. His pills were in the drawer of his bureau but as he picked them up he remembered he could never swallow them without water.
The kitchen was empty, spotless and shining. He looked around and shook his head. Surely to goodness the new cleaning lady would suit. He’d heard her working like a Trojan all morning and when she’d brought him his sandwich before she left, it was on a tray with a cloth and had bits of parsley and tomato to make it look nice just like those pictures in the women’s magazines. But there was no pleasing Edna these days. It was a long time since she’d had a good word for him. There wasn’t much he could do about it now.
He swallowed the pills, rinsed the glass and turned it upside down to drain by the sink. Then he looked at it and thought again. He dried it and put it away. As he closed the cupboard door the pain surged. He put out his hand and held on to the sink.
‘Go away,’ he said to it. ‘Come tomorrow, when it doesn’t matter so much.’
He felt the sweat break on his brow and wondered if he should sit down. But the kitchen was not a place where he ever felt comfortable. Edna hated him in the kitchen and if she arrived back from town just now she’d make a fuss and say he’d been doing something he’d been told not to do. How was she to get her jobs done if she couldn’t leave him for five minutes? She always said five minutes when she’d been gone most of the day.
‘Come on, George, get going. Tell yourself it’s downhill.’
He made his way back along the hall and into the dining room. To his surprise the pain began to ease.
‘Great stuff,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Let’s get this fire made up while the going’s good. Shure, what does it matter if I have to sit here the whole afternoon, so long as I’m all right for Jenny coming.’
Gladys would laugh if she could hear him. His secretary for twenty years and his friend and confidante for most of them, she’d told him only last week that he mustn’t talk to himself or people would get the wrong idea.
‘An’ d’ye not talk to yourself, Gladys?’ he asked her teasingly.
‘’Deed I do,’ she replied promptly. ‘But I make sure no one’s listening.’
He made up the fire and sat down gratefully. The pain had eased a lot but it had left him feeling weak. Or maybe that was the tablets. Whatever it was, he’d have to behave himself today. Rest, the doctor said. Rest. There hadn’t been a lot of rest in his life and it didn’t come easy to him now. But he could read. Wasn’t he lucky he had good eyesight and enough books to thatch houses with, as the saying was.
He picked up a small leather-covered volume from his side table. A spot of Goldsmith in the dying months of the year. Sweet Auburn, perhaps. A link with times long past when the world was simpler, if not better. He opened it and looked at the familiar handwriting inside the cover. ‘To Daddy with love, because your old copy is falling apart. Happy Birthday, Jenny.’
‘Daddy, can we go up to Granny’s house before we go home?’
He looked down at the small hand clutching his arm and the earnest regard in the dark eyes. ‘It’s a bit of a walk for you, love, and it’ll be wet after the rain.’
‘But I have my boots, Daddy. Granny McTaggart says I could go anywhere in my seven league boots.’
Mary McTaggart laughed and took the brown teapot from the stove. ‘Have anither drap o’ tea, George. I think ye may go, for she’s talked ‘bout nothin’ else all week. She’s had Lottie gae up there three or four times a’ready. She’d ’ave gone hersel’ if I’d let her.’
He looked at his watch. Edna would be expecting her back for bedtime at seven and the Austin was not exactly the world’s fastest car.
‘Please Daddy. I’ve had such a lovely holiday with Granny McTaggart and she’s told me all about you when you were a little boy.’
‘Oh dear,’ laughed George, looking up at the old woman who had always been so kind to him. ‘Has she told you all my secrets?’
‘Yes,’ said the child promptly. ‘But I can keep a secret, can’t I, Granny?’
‘Oh, ye can do mony a thing, my little lady. I hope yer auld granny is still here in ten years time to see ye.’
‘When I’m sixteen and all grown up?’ she said, as she fetched a small pair of Wellingtons from a corner of the big kitchen where those of Mary’s youngest son and his family were lined up against the wall.
The rain had cleared and the late August sun was warm on their faces as they avoided the puddles in the farmyard, George stepping carefully in the brown leather shoes he wore in town. Five months now since the move. A hard time it had been. Worries about the loan on the showroom, the tractors and trailers he had ordered from England, the cost of the glossy catalogues he’d distributed with reapers and binders and combines too big and too costly to stock. The mortgage on the house in Stranmillis, the only one Edna had liked, was far more than he had planned and the work it needed took up every hour when he was not at the showroom. But it had been his own choice. For the first time in his life he was his own boss. You couldn’t have that and peace of mind as well.
In this last month things had begun to move. The war years had been profitable for farmers with every bite of food sure of its market and a good price guaranteed, and the three years since had been good too, though labour had to be a problem with wages so low. The farmers were beginning to spend what they had accumulated, confident now that the old hard times were past. First they bought a motor car for themselves, then they put in a bathroom for the family and then they looked at their old-fashioned and worn-out farm machinery. Having a tractor was the first step. He’d be sad himself to see the plough horses go, but the change had begun during the war on the big farms and now he was sure the smaller farmers were beginning to follow on. A tractor could do the work of a couple of men.
Well, it would take a lot of tractors to put Harvey through his seven years. He’d set his heart on being a doctor and the sixth form master at the new school said he had every chance of passing his exams. That had really pleased Edna. In fact, since the move from Ballymena, things had been easier there. She had joined the Church ladies and went out more. Sometimes on a Saturday when he was decorating or fitting up shelves she would bring him a mug of tea. At times she seemed almost content.
‘Did you always come this way when you went to school?’
George glanced down at the small figure skipping along at his side. She never walked unless she was thinking about something and then you would see her move one foot at a time, with a dogged deliberation, her brow deeply furrowed. On her first day at her new primary school down the road she had walked solemnly off with her mother and then come skipping home with a friend. That was typical of Jenny. The surprise in his life, the daughter he never expected, closer to him from her earliest years than the son of whom he had had such hopes.
‘No, usually I went down beside the stream till I got to the road. I only came this way to see Granny McTaggart.’
‘Didn’t you get your shoes wet going down by the stream?’
‘I didn’t wear shoes.’
‘But you can’t wear Wellies for going to school,’ she protested. ‘Did you take your shoes in a shoe bag?’
‘I didn’t have any shoes or Wellies. Lots of children didn’t in those days.’ He looked down again and saw the familiar furrow as she considered this piece of information. She was walking now with her eyes focused on the toes of her boots and the rough surface of the almost overgrown path.
‘Didn’t the stones hurt when you tramped on them?’
‘Sometimes, but your feet got hard and you didn’t notice, mostly.’
At that moment they reached the first of the two streams that crossed their path.
‘How did the stream know where to go under the ground?’
‘It didn’t. It just felt around and wherever it found a hole or a crack, in it went.’
‘Do you think it likes being under there?’
George smiled to himself. She could go on like this for hours. And he would be happy to let her for the workings of her mind never ceased to intrigue him. But it made Edna angry. Always asking questions, and such silly nonsense too. She blamed him for encouraging her.
‘Look, Jenny, you can see Scotland now.’
‘Where?’
He saw her bend down and peer out to sea between two gorse bushes. He laughed at himself, picked her up and felt the soft touch of one arm as she wound it round his neck. She waved the other towards the sea, greeny-blue and flecked with white caps after the passing shower.
‘Is that Scotland?’
‘Yes, love. That’s the Mull of Kintyre.’
‘Mull of Kintyre,’ she repeated solemnly as if she were learning it by heart.
He stood and pointed out the landmarks of his childhood world, and then, still carrying her, strode up and across the stepping stones to the abandoned house where the thatch had fallen in at one end and been overwhelmed by a tangle of roses, a few of which were still in bloom.
‘The door’s not locked, Daddy, but Lottie wouldn’t let me go in. She says there might be a ghost.’
The door had never had a lock. What was there to steal and who was there to steal it? Andy McTaggart had said it would make a storehouse for potatoes, but young Harry, always more practical, said it was too far away and not worth the carrying. So, after his mother died it had stood empty. He had removed her few possessions, put away the few pieces of delph as keepsakes for his brothers and sisters and planted fuchsias in the couple of three-legged pots which had survived.
He pushed open the door. He was surprised that there was no smell of damp, but then the back windows were broken and it was summer, the flagged stone floor was dry and only slightly dusty. Jenny walked in under his arm and stood regarding the empty hearth.
‘What’s that, Daddy?’ she asked, pointing her finger at the metal crane which still stood over the hearth, the chain dangling, untenanted over the absent fire. He saw flames spring up and shadows move and smelt the soda farls fresh from the griddle. It wasn’t all hard. There had been happiness in this place too. He knew now why his mother would not leave when he married in ’31. All the things she had loved were here. She had insisted firmly that she would stay and Mary McTaggart, ten years younger and now widowed herself had backed her up. Edna had said these old people can’t move with the times. It was better to let them alone.
‘Mmm, what’s that, love?’ he said, collecting himself and looking down again at the two bright eyes that regarded him unblinkingly.
‘Have you seen a ghost, Daddy?’ she said thoughtfully.
‘Perhaps I have, Jenny. It depends what you think a ghost is. Some people think ghosts are just what we remember inside our heads. I was remembering your Granny Erwin and your aunties and uncles in Scotland, and England, and America. I’ll tell you about them on the way home in the car if you’re a good girl. But we must go now. All right?’
‘All right, Daddy, but can I walk across the stepping stones all by myself?’
He hesitated. There was only a little water over the stones, hardly enough to wet his own shoes, but they were always slippery. She might fall and the boulders were rough in the stream bed. She could hit her head. How could he bear to lose this child, never to see those eyes again watching him, trusting, questioning. He felt tears mist his vision. What you love most you fear to lose. But you must face that fear or you destroy something of what you love. That was what his mother always said.
He nodded shortly and saw her run out of the cottage and across the rough grass. Before he had pulled the door behind him and opened his mouth to say a word of warning she was away and across. Standing on the far bank, a small, self-contained figure, she was waving to him.
‘Come on, Daddy, hurry up, you said it was time to go.’
He followed her cautiously and reached for her hand as she skipped along beside him.
Remember that, George. Let it be a lesson to you, he said silently to himself. Don’t ever try to put her in a cage to keep her safe, he added, as they moved together along the valleyside where the heather murmured and shook with the passionate harvesting of the bees . . .
George woke abruptly, the buzzing still in his ears. Pain oscillated in his chest. Suddenly the room seemed very warm. He leaned back in his chair, wiped beads of perspiration from his brow and thought longingly of the cool air of the glenside in the early morning, of the path he had walked with Jenny in his arms only moments ago in his dream.
The pain began to subside and his breathing became easier. He settled more comfortably in his chair. Lulled by the quiet, the warmth of the fire and the powerful drugs that dilated the arteries of his chest, he dozed off again. As the minutes of the long afternoon clicked past on the broad face of the clock on the mantelpiece, he moved far away in time and place.
The rain came in the night. It swept down the deep glen in soft grey curtains, catching fragments of light from the half-obscured moon. At first, the fine droplets slid over the summer dry grass, then, as the few dark hours of the short night passed, the thin soils became sodden and tiny rivulets began to trickle into the dry stream beds. By the time the sun rose and the sky cleared, the air was full of the splash of brown, peaty water as a dozen streams dashed headlong to the valley floor.
It was not the sudden bustle in the deep-cut watercourses that woke young George Erwin from his dream-filled sleep. It was the steady drip from the thatch and the bright dappling on the ceiling, where the sunlight reflected from the pools of water shimmering in the morning breeze on the swept stone flags outside the cottage. He lay, warm and still, only his eyes moving round the familiar features of his small, bare room.
The tiny window that looked south across the great trench-like hollow of the glen was spattered with raindrops and shadowed by the climbing rose his father had planted for his mother long ago. When he brought his young bride away from the comfortable, slate-roofed house where she had lived with her parents, and taught in the village school, she had come without regret, and made no complaint at the hardness of her new life, but down there, near the sea, where the soil was deep and had been worked for centuries, she’d had a garden and an orchard and he knew that she missed them. To comfort her for the loss of which she never spoke, he sent all the way to Antrim for a pink rose like the ones she had left behind.
Exposed to the strong wind on the valley sides and the thin soils of the crumbling basalt, it had struggled to get its roots down. Seeing its need, his father had collected soil from the lowland stream banks and manure from the farm where he laboured. He’d carried it up on his back and tended the young root with the same warm affection he offered to her and his children. The rose had flourished as their life had flourished. Now, when he was gone, it was his mother’s greatest joy. Apart from her children, all grown and gone away except for himself, there was nothing she loved more dearly than her climbing rose.
He could tell by the strength of the light and the shadow of the window thrown on the whitewashed wall that it was late. Usually by this hour he had milked the cow and searched for the eggs laid in strange places by the hens who had gone broody. Sometimes he would light the fire before he set off for school, or dig potatoes for their supper, or tether the goat in some new place where it had not already eaten all the meagre grass. Today there would be no time to do any of those tasks and he wondered why she had not called him an hour ago.
Just at that moment, she did call. A light, soft voice unmarked by the hardship of her life and the loss of so many she had loved.
‘Georgie. Time ye were up. It’s a grate mornin’.’
He jumped out of bed, poured water from the delph jug into the basin on the washstand, gave his face and hands a perfunctory wipe and pulled on his shirt and trousers. As he opened the door into the big, dark kitchen, he saw his mother was sitting outside. She was already at work. While she sat on one kitchen chair, another close by held her workbox and a pile of napkins. She was turned towards the light, her needle flying, her movements so fast he could hardly follow them. She heard him come, let the damask drop in her lap and reached up to kiss him.
‘How mony more?’ he asked, returning her kiss.
‘Seven forby. But ’tis early yet. He’ll not likely be here a while yet,’ she said, reassuring him. ‘Are ye weary the morn?’ she went on, looking at the droop of his shoulders and eyes filmed with sleep. ‘Ye were way late last night,’ she added gently.
‘No, I’m nae tired at all,’ he said brightly.
She smiled at him and took up her work, knowing now that he was tired. And how would he not be tired with the jobs McTaggart gave him, and him not strong. She felt her eyes mist as she looked at him, twelve years old and trying to do a man’s work with a child’s body. ‘Away now an’ eat a bite, I left it ready for ye,’ she said quickly as she concealed the end of thread at the back of her work and trimmed it off neatly with her fine scissors.
‘Have ye had yourn?’ he asked, his eyes on her hands and the small practised movements she made as she picked up the next napkin and checked that the tracing was in the right place and on the proper side of the fabric.
‘Oh, long since,’ she laughed as she squinted into the light, moistened the white thread and manoeuvred it into the eye of the crewel needle.
He knew she hadn’t eaten, just as she had known that he was tired. But neither felt any shame in their deception. In the important things of their life, their love for the hard but beautiful place in which they lived, their joy in the creatures who shared their bare hillside, and the pleasure of the few books which had survived the struggle to make ends meet, they could be honest. There was between them both friendship and love.
The fire was not lit, though there was turf in the basket and kindling stacked in a corner by the wooden settle. No need of warmth on such a fine summer morning, but without fire there could be no cooking. The empty hearth told him that both the flour sack and the meal barrel were empty. Unless there were some dollars from Nellie in America or a postal order from Glasgow or London, they would remain so. The few shillings from the man who collected the white work would have to go on baker’s bread. And in June and July they had to buy potatoes till the new crop were ready to dig. In all the old stories they read on winter’s nights, July was the ‘hungry month’. As he bit into the dry crust of bread, Georgie wondered why it was only July, for June was just as bad.
Most mornings they had tea, made weak and brewed well over the fire, but he knew that there would be no more tea till after Friday’s cart. He looked at the glass of buttermilk set by his plate and winced. He hated its sour taste and the little globules of fat that settled on your upper lip as you swallowed it. But he knew she would be anxious if he left it untouched and drank instead a glass of spring water from the white enamelled pail in the cupboard.
‘Drink it, Georgie, ah do. ’Tis good for ye. Ye hav tae build yer strength.’
He imagined he heard her voice, even though she was outside, bent over her work, the sunlight catching the grey in her once dark hair. He knew what she was thinking when she said that, too, though the words were never mentioned between them.
Three years ago, for weeks of the summer he had lain side by side with his younger brother in the room now used only when some of his brothers and sisters came to visit. Between the two narrow beds his mother had sat, hour after hour, wringing bits of cloth in a pail of water cold from the stream to wipe their faces and bodies. He had felt sweat pour from his brow and found his limbs ached so much he could hardly manage to use the chamber pot. It had gone on for weeks, sleeping and dreaming and not knowing which was which. He had had nightmares, called out in his sleep and seen them move his brother to another room. Only at the end of it, when he could just manage to stand again, did they tell him that Jamsey had died from the same rheumatic fever from which he was beginning to recover.
It had taken his brother to the churchyard behind the grey stone church at the valley’s mouth. From his place in the schoolroom in the shadow of the church he could see the gleam of the marble stone. The names he could not see, but he had no need, he knew them by heart for they were the history of his family. Despite the rain and wind of these three years, the new letters were still sharp: ‘And Jamsey, aged 7, youngest son of Ellen and the above James Erwin.’
He drank the buttermilk as quickly as he could and wiped his lips on his sleeve. On the scrubbed wooden table next to his plate were two brown eggs in a paper bag. He took them up reluctantly, fetched his satchel and reading book, and went out into the sun.
‘Tell Mary I’m behind wi’ my allocation, I’ve not baked a bite yet. She’ll give ye a piece for school.’
Mary McTaggart was a kind neighbour and had been good to them in many ways. But her husband was a different matter. He had been amiable enough when James Erwin was his tenant and hired labourer, working long hours without overtime and paying his rent without fail. But young George could only manage half a man’s work, and even when the hours after school and at the weekends were enough to pay the rent, it no longer brought it in cash. If there was one thing Harry McTaggart liked, it was cash. On the nail.
‘Have ye learned yer poem?’ she asked, her needle poised over the initials she was working on the damask.
‘Aye. Will I say it over tae ye?’
She shook her head. ‘Nay, nay, ye’ll be late. Ye’ll say it for me the night, when the work’s away tae Belfast.’ She smiled up at him and held out the napkin she had just begun. ‘Look, Georgie, these must be for ye. There’s half a dozen for G.E.’
He stood looking down at the intertwined letters with their broad satin-stitch bodies and delicate chain-stitch swirls. It had never happened before. In all the allocations, the dozens of pieces she had worked, there had never before been a G.E. He reached out a finger and touched the letters cautiously, knowing full well that a dirty mark would mean a deduction in the payment. She held out the others, five more large squares of finest damask, each traced lightly in blue with his own initials.
He looked at them wistfully. By the end of the afternoon they would be finished, and long before he got back from the farm they would be wrapped in clean cotton rag, tied into a bale with the others and carried up the track to the waiting carrier. He would take them to Belfast and somewhere in the crowded streets of the city, in a warehouse or in a factory shed, they would be smoothed and folded, tied with fine green ribbon and put in boxes lined with soft white tissue. Made in Ireland. Hand finished. In tiny gold letters. So she had told him. And then they would go on their way to those who could afford to buy such things, to some great house in some other part of Ireland, or to England, or across the ocean to America.
‘Some day, Georgie,’ she said quietly, breaking into his thoughts, ‘ye’ll have napkins, an’ books, an’ things of yer own. Make sure ye lissen hard to all the master says. What gaes into your head, Georgie, belongs to ye, e’en when you’ve nae piece to take to school.’
There were two ways down to McTaggart’s farm. You could climb upwards on a rough track till you struck the metalled road and then follow it along for a mile or more, till it dipped into the head of the glen and then rose up out of it again to strike across the plateau to Ballymena, or you could drop down the hillside and pick your way along a narrow path which followed the valleyside just where the overlying basalt met the underlying chalk and the rough, hungry land of the dark rock became suddenly gentler and greener.
George chose the low path and set off downhill between the gorse bushes, the rush of water in his ears. Their own stream from which he carried the buckets for washing and cleaning was in full spate and the broad flat stepping stones his father had placed there were well covered. He stepped gingerly across, the cold water tugging at his ankles, concerned for neither his much-mended clothes nor his bare feet but for the book tucked inside his battered satchel. Once safely across, he took to the straggling grass, still wet from the rain and scattered with wildflowers. Soon the walking became easy. With chalk beneath, the turf was short and springy, dry already after the rain and sprinkled with the yellow stars of tormentil and the blue bell flowers of milkwort.
He stopped on a small, grassy lawn and listened to the muffled roar of a stream in its subterranean course. He tipped back his head and looked up. Over the black, frost-shattered basalt flowed one of the many streams that coursed down the rock-strewn beds they had carved out for themselves. Where he stood, it had already dived deep, seeking out the cracks and fissures in the porous rock. Only in the wettest of winters did these streams overflow their underground routes and flood across the patches of springy turf like this one where he stood wriggling his toes luxuriously in the softness.
Below him the valley lay green and shining in the sunlight, the two grey trackways weaving their way along either side of the river until they met the Coast Road. Beyond the straggling village on the southern side of the glen, an arc of sand dazzled in the sunlight. Blue and barely rippled by the breeze, the sea lay so calm, so tranquil. It was hard to imagine the winter storms churning the waves into great crashing breakers, brown with sand and broken shell, boiling up the beach and snatching hungrily at the concrete base of the new road that took the visitors in their jaunting cars to see the sights of the rocky coast, from The Glens to Ballycastle and beyond.
Across the calm water lay the coast of Scotland, so sharp and clear he felt he could reach out and touch it. He smiled, remembered his father and what he used to say on all the fine summer days like today when he came back into the cottage, calling out for Ellen. ‘Boys it’s a powerful day, Ellen. Iss tha’ clear I ken see them tossin’ ther hay o’er in Scotlan’.’
Reluctantly he walked on, his eyes still moving over the valley below. The hawthorn had flowered late, right at the end of May, but it had blossomed so richly the branches looked as if they were laden with snow. The scent lay heavy on the air and he drank it in, savouring it like the smell of delectable food, bread fresh from the griddle or bacon frying over the fire.
As he strode up a small rise where the path opened into a broad track leading to the farm, he must have closed his eyes for a moment to taste its richness, for suddenly he found his way blocked. He was looking up at Andy McTaggart, the eldest of the McTaggart sons, astride one of the big plough horses. Andy stared down at him, the reins in one hand, an elegant-looking whip in the other.
‘’Tis a gae fine mornin’,’ Georgie said agreeably as he waited for the horse to get used to his presence and allow him to pass by. But the rider made no motion to let him through.
‘Is ther nae shorter way fer ye tae gae doun an’ o’er tae the school?’ he asked unpleasantly.
‘Ther is, aye. But I hae a message for yer mather.’
‘Oh, an’ what’s that?’
Georgie felt the blood rush to his face as he remembered the two eggs in his satchel. For a moment he thought he might make up some message, a greeting, or a bit of news. But it was no good, he knew he wasn’t quick enough for the likes of Andy McTaggart.
‘’Tis for hersel’,’ he said, flustered.
‘Oh aye, it is. We all nae tha’. Come to beg yer piece tae tak tae school. Ye’re a beggar, Georgie Erwin.’
The horse shuffled, suddenly uneasy, and McTaggart struck him with the whip. It was not a hard blow but it made a crack that sounded loud in the stillness of the morning. Georgie knew that he was showing off, copying some horseman he had seen when his father took him to the Antrim Races. But the knowledge helped him not at all. He felt his face stiffen and the pleasure of the June day fall away as if a thunderstorm had rolled down the valley and shut off the sun.
‘I am nae,’ he said fiercely, ‘I hae me piece in me bag, so I hae. Ye can tell yer mather I’ll be late the day. I hae an errand to the shop.’
So saying, Georgie darted past, his eye level with McTaggart’s boot in the short stirrup of the saddle. It was well-polished and so new it had not even been mended. He didn’t make for the path down into the valley but struck out between the bushes and the outcrops of rock, indifferent to the sharp stones and brambles he encountered that bruised his feet and tore at his bare legs.
‘I’m nae a beggar. I’m nae a beggar,’ he said, over and over again as he reached the road and strode out along it as fast as his legs would carry him. And all the while, high above his head, he could hear the crack of the whip and the noise of hoofs on the track that led back to McTaggart’s farm.
