Читать книгу The Crest of the Broken Wave - James William Barke - Страница 8

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On a mild December evening, following on a day of neither frost nor rain, the Bard and Jean arrived at the Isle. They had taken the journey in easy stages, stopping at John Merry’s inn in New Cumnock and at Baillie Whigham’s inn at Sanquhar and at Brownhill Inn, where they had enjoyed a supper with Willie Stewart of Closeburn Castle.

Nance Cullie had been prevailed upon to light a fire at the Isle and when they arrived the kitchen was warm and inviting.

“Well, here you are in Nithsdale at long last, Jean,” he said, when he came in from the stable. He kissed her again and again. “Jean, my love, you’ll never ken what it means to me to hae you doon here beside me.”

“Rab ... Rab... You’ll never ken what it means to me. Here we are at last—and naebody through the wa’.”

“Just ourselves, lass—though that’ll no’ be for long. But you’re tired! Come on: aff wi’ your things and into bed. By God—and that’s a grand bed, Jean. And mind: we’re no’ getting up in the morning. This’ll be our third honeymoon. There’ll be a fourth when I get the house bigged ower at Ellisland.”

“Oh, I’ll need to see Ellisland in the morning, Rab.”

“I hear you—but it’ll no’ be the morn’s morning... You’re no’ too tired, Jean?”

“Weel ... but you are, Rab. An’ to tell the truth, Rab, my back-side’s gey sair.”

“I’ll cure that for you, lass, never fear. God, but I’m glad to be in the Isle the nicht and to realise that I’ll never be in Cullie’s spence again.”

“Oh, I’ll need to see that too.”

“Aye: you’ll see it. And you’ll ken then why I wouldna bring you down to it.”

They were undressed and had got into bed. The Bard had thrown some peats and an armful of logs on to the wide glowing fireplace. Long forks of flame flicked in the great chimney. Shadows danced and writhed on the ceiling and walls and flashed on the crockery on the dresser.

They were in bed, tired physically, and yet mentally alert and emotionally vibrant.

“D’you think we’re near to being settled doon now, Rab? Machlin and Mossgiel seem terribly far awa’.”

“Aye ... they’re far awa’, Jean. You’ll maybe realise now what ’a’ the airts’ meant to me when I wrote it on the banks o’ the Nith?”

“I wonder, Rab, that you’ve put up wi’ it sae lang: I couldna.”

“You endured mair than enough at Machlin.”

“Aye—but Machlin was hame.”

“And you still feel Machlin’s hame. You’re no’ hamesick already, are you?”

“I’ll never be hamesick as long as I hae you, Rab. Wherever you are’ll be hame.”

“You ken, my love, I canna richt believe sometimes that you and me are man and wife till death do us part. You’re ower guid, Jean: that’s your only fault. Ower guid, ower true, ower leal——”

“Och, be sensible——”

“Sensible! No, I’ll never be that wi’ you, Jean. Sensible’s too cold and prudent a word. Damnit, I love you.”

“I ken you do, Rab. I dinna think that in my darkest hours I ever doubted that.”

“Weel, weel, lass! We’re no’ going back ower the past: that’s closed and by wi’. We’ve the future to look forward to—and uncertain though that future may be the now, we’ll see the brightest o’ it thegither... But you havena said what you think o’ the house—what you’ve seen o’ it?”

“I canna say ocht, Rab—my heart’s too fu’...”

“Weel, when that big overflowing heart o’ yours is too fu’, Jean——”

“Rab ... I’m juist gratefu’ for onything that brings us thegither——”

They had been brought together often enough, brought together in the happiness of lad and lass and man and wife. Under the green thorn tree; in hay loft and straw shed; beneath the Cowgate thatch; in many a green howe and hollow; under the blankets of the mahogany bed in Baldy Muckle’s room in the Backcauseway, aye, and many another sweet corner besides. But here in the Isle, in David Newall’s kitchen bed, on a soft damp night in December and a great fire roaring in the ingle, was perhaps their sweetest night of all.

Perhaps—and maybe not. The Bard could never recall a night spent in Jean’s arms that had not been a bliss and an ecstasy. And he had ever to admit that, of all the women he had known—and in Jean’s arms he always forgot how many he had known—there was no woman who could compare with her. Other women had their charms, their particular attributes. But only with Jean could he be completely and utterly stripped-naked natural. With all the others he had acted some part or another; with none of the others had he given himself so utterly, so completely... God bless Jean Glover—whore that she was—and wasn’t—who had first initiated him into the ways of physical love. And the Lord look kindly on Jean Gardiner and sonsy Betty Paton... But bless and preserve Jean Armour, the jewel o’ them a’, to all eternity...

They should have been more than tired and physically exhausted. But they were on a honeymoon and so great was the spiritual love they mutually generated that physical tire was annihilated. And because they loved so deeply spiritually, they loved so deeply physically. There was no dichotomy in their love; no fractures, abrasions, no half-truths, half-way houses; no avenues of escape; no cushions of illusion... There was the all-embracing unity of bare-buttocked lust and the love of the red rose of life’s recurrent blooming; the holy trinity of mind, heart and body; the merging of body and soul; of love everlasting even as it journeyed to age, decay, decrepitude and death.

The wonder would have been otherwise had Jean not conceived at some moment during that long, seemingly interminable night and day...