Читать книгу Land Of The Leal - James Barke - Страница 18

Time heals everything. David Ramsay remembered Sam MacKitteroch saying these words to his father the day Richard had been buried. He did not fully understand the meaning of the words for as yet time and eternity were synonymous terms. Time had done little to heal the wound of his brother’s death – his mind still went numb when he thought about it. And it was now almost two years since that terrible night.

David Ramsay was growing rapidly. He was not big-boned. He gave no evidence that he would ever be a heavily-fleshed man. He was thin but unusually wiry. Already he had developed surprising powers of endurance. He still came home tired. No one came home fresh from the fields of Achgammie. But he could put in his day with less extreme of physical exhaustion than when he had first started.

He still wanted to go to sea – but he would not speak to his father. He had aged since Richard had died and David knew he could not bear the mention of the sea.

He felt a helpless pity and sorrow for his father who was now so aged and broken. He did not feel angry when he came home drunk. He was in such despair in his drink that David pitied him even more. But he could make no approach to him: could not put in words his feelings, his sympathy, his deep filial love.

He would need to make his own plans for getting away to sea – getting away from the toil of Achgammie. He could see now that if he stayed there would be nothing but toil – never-ending toil; that the boundaries of his horizon would be what his eye could take in as he raised his head from the endless drills.

He would need to make up his mind soon and perfect his plans else he might find himself feed to John MacMeechan.

David did not know his father had already made his plans for him. There could be no question of college now: there could be no question of the sea. But there was one farmer Andrew Ramsay respected: William MacGeoch of Cortorfin. Now that William’s old father had died he was in indisputable right of the farm and free to work the place as he thought best. William MacGeoch and Andrew Ramsay had run about as boys together and there had been a friendship between their fathers. Though their paths had diverged since boyhood they still met and rejoiced in their friendship.

William had many sons but his favourite was Peter, a boy of similar age to David Ramsay: a keen intelligent lad with much of the devil in him. Andrew confessed his love for David and asked Cortorfin if he could fee him as soon as he was fit to be feed. William agreed readily enough. He had watched David and knew him to have all the makings of a good worker. But he agreed the more readily for the sake of friendship and auld lang syne. A hard-headed and practical farmer, Cortorfin was at heart a sentimentalist: he found Andrew’s plea irresistible.

‘I’ll look after the boy, Andra. I’m thinking o’ putting on an extra pair o’ horse. I’m putting Peter in charge of a pair for a year or two. It’ll steady him up and make a man o’ him. Afterwards I ettle to put him to the cheese-making. In time, if he shapes well, I’ll put him into a dairy farm of his own. They can have a pair o’ horse each – but your boy will get a third ploughman’s benefit the same as mine. I would like to turn over a bit more fallow now that the auld fellow’s at rest. He could never agree to that. What about the term after next – November?’

They shook hands on it.

‘November would do bravely, William. But I’ll no’ let on to him yet. I know his mind’s made up on the sea. But I couldna bear to think o’ that – after Richard!’

‘Aye, man. Richard was a sair blow. What age would the boy be, coming Martinmas? Ten? Aye, just what I thought. I think they’re both October? Aye, man: you’ve had a hard life o’ it too, Andra. You can lippen on me to do what I can for him. I suppose I should be thankful: I’ve never known want. If I’ve had to work, at least I’ve had the pleasure o’ working for myself. But man, Andra, I wanted something that I havena got. I just don’t exactly know what it is that’s lacking – the family’s like the world and the wife and me get on as well as the next – but damn it, there’s no great satisfaction about life. Sometimes I feel I mucked the best days o’ my life about Cortorfin – working and grubbing a’ the time – the same bit, day in and day out. I get stodged a bit: stale … Auld age maybe … I’d hae liked a trip round the world … but what wi’ seeing the boys into farms o’ their own, I’ll have harder work than ever. No’ that I’ll get any thanks: damn’ the fear o’ that. You know, Andra: it’s a damned thankless job bringing up a family, damned thankless – and heartbreaking forbye.’

‘Aye: it’s all that, William. We had great hopes when we started out on life. But the hopes get fainter and fainter. But there’s little good in mourning. I’ve nobody to blame but myself. I made a mess o’ my life and I’ve had to pay for it. You see: I thought I knew better than anybody: wouldn’t take advice from anybody: got the bit between my teeth and went ahead. No’ that I was offered much advice. I sometimes think my father could have cautioned me … but maybe he didn’t see the dangers I was running into.’

‘That’s true enough. Man, Andra: there’s no two doubts about it: the happiest days were when we were running about the shore and the heughs. Well, to hell: there’s no purpose in mourning about it now: we can’t put the knock back: the hands go round whether we like it or no’… aye: even when we’re sleeping… What d’ye say: we’ll across to MacHaffie’s and have a dram? What’s the good o’ hoarding money when you can drink it … and forget in the drinking?’