Her Sister's Gift Page 3

  The men walked grim-faced along the short street, supported by the sense of the whole community grieving with them. Reaching the cemetery gates, they followed the minister to the grave, where they carefully lowered the coffin on to the ropes laid on the ground at the head of the grave. There was a brief silence as they all stood, heads bowed. Then the minister began.

  “Our help is in the name of the Lord who made heaven and earth; For he knoweth our frame, he remembreth that we are dust. All flesh is as grass and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth and the flower thereof falleth away, but the word of the Lord endureth forever.”

  At the mention of the “grass”, Isa found her mind full of the sunny hour in the field making the daisy chains. How short-lasted the flowers were after they had been picked. They had indeed withered quickly, drooping and stretching, losing their colour and vigour. Jessie and Ina had taken the daisies from Eliza’s hair and brushed it when they laid her out in the coffin. Isa’s lip quivered, her breathing sharpened, she gripped her father’s hand tighter.

  The bearers took the ropes and raised the coffin once more, carefully stepping along the sides of the grave before lowering it steadily and slowly into the earth as the minister continued with the words of committal. “Almighty and everlasting God, who has called out of this sinful and dying world the soul of our dear sister, Eliza, here departed, we commit her body to the ground, till that great day when the Lord Jesus Christ shall change our vile bodies that they may be fashioned like unto His own glorious body.” This he had said solemnly and softly but then he raised his head and firmly pronounced: “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”

  Sting, thought Isa. That is how it feels. An intense burning reminder of what happened. She heard her mother moaning and felt her father lean away from her as he slipped his arm around his wife’s waist to support her more strongly.

  The minister had begun his final prayer. “Merciful God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, we give thee humble thanks for this Thy servant Eliza, fallen asleep in the Lord. For all Thy goodness and mercy vouchsafed to her in her earthly pilgrimage, we give Thee praise and thanks. We are grateful that her trials and temptations being past, her spirit is at rest with Thee, and her body awaits the resurrection. Grant that, being animated by her good example, we may run the race that is set before us, not being weary in well-doing, that when this transitory world is passed away, we may again be joined with our dear friends, departed in the Lord, in Thy kingdom of glory, where there shall be no more sickness or sighing, pain, sorrow or death . . .”

  Mary’s knees buckled under her and her legs gave way. John let go of Isa’s hand and caught Mary before she fell to the ground. His brother Frank came to the other side of her and between them both they raised her to her feet, arms round her waist and under her shoulders to help keep her up.

  Isa started whimpering and as the gravediggers approached to begin shovelling the earth into the grave she heard her mother’s high-pitched keening and her own sobbing under it. She knew this was not how she was supposed to conduct herself but she had no control. That was her sister in that box. She saw again her broken mangled body. Why had this happened? Why had she not waited till the train had passed? She would still be here if she had and they would be together looking after Margaret and Chrissie and walking up the road to school, chatting and laughing and sharing their day. Instead she was gone. In a box in the ground.

  As the other mourners were directed by her uncles back to the house, the minister approached Isa and her parents.

  “John, Mary, Isa,” he said. “This is a most terrible time for you all. I hope and pray that your family and friends and our church congregation will be of comfort to you. Please accept our support and ask of us what you need. You will be in my thoughts and prayers every day. Remember the joys Eliza brought you when she was on loan to us from God, and know that she is now beyond suffering in His love.” Isa felt the wetness of his tears on her hand when he clasped hers in his.

  “Thank you so much, Reverend Falconer,” she heard her father say, his voice trembling. “Your words have been a great comfort to us today.”

  Then they turned back towards the house, Frank and John struggling to keep Mary on her feet and almost carrying her home between them.

  Isa was moved at how the minister had described Eliza as being on loan to them from God. She certainly hadn’t been given long with them. But as he had said, her short life had been filled with joy. Eliza had been a happy companion, always full of fun and ideas to make the days lighter. Her cheerful smile and humming came from her contented disposition and positive nature. It had been a horrible death but it was over for Eliza now. The doctor had said she would have died instantly, unaware of what had happened. She was in heaven and Isa was so glad for her to be at peace. But for Isa, life had lost its shape, its sense, its simplicity. In its place there was this leaden heaviness, and a churning painful confusion.

  *

  Isa sat bolt upright in bed. What was that noise? It was like a throbbing, revving to a high pitch then dropping low again. It seemed to be coming from somewhere inside the house. She listened intently, anxious, alert, scared. Then she heard her father’s voice soothing and the other sound turned into the more recognisable sound of sobbing. She realised it was her mother.

  Mary was in a constant state of agony. It hurt to breathe, to think, to listen, to speak. It hurt to be alive when her two children had been robbed of their lives. During the day she was numb and solemn, but at night the pain was too great to contain. She rocked herself to and fro on the floor, her arms wrapped round her knees and John’s shaking arms holding the counterpane around her shoulders.

  “Ma bairn. Ma bairn,” she whimpered. “Whit have they done wi’ ma bairn?”

  “Noo, lass, dinnae greet sae sairly,” John murmured as he stroked her hair. “He’s gone, Mary. He’s wi’ Eliza and their maker. They’re both safe noo.”

  “But I niver clappit ma e’en on him, John. I niver held him. I dinnae ken the colour o’ his e’en or his hair.”

  “It’s for the best, Mary, love. It wisnae tae be. He wis niver gaun tae be wi’ us. We hiv tae let him go.”

  “It’s too much, John. The baby and Eliza. It’s too much. Eliza should still be here. I’m a useless mither, John. I didnae think properly aboot the weans that day. I should nivver hae left them tae Isa. I should hae gotten Belva tae tak’ them.”

  “It’s nae use sayin’ that noo. Whit’s done is done. We hiv tae look efter the ithers noo. And you need yer rest. Come awaw, lass. Let me tak’ ye back tae bed.” And he helped her to the bed, tucked her under the sheets, spread the counterpane over them both and held her in his arms until she slept.

  Isa lay down beside her sisters but did not sleep.

  Ma mither blames me, she thought. And she relived the terrible day and saw her mother was right.

  3

  Eventually, with John’s and Jessie’s prompting, Mary got up, put on her apron and took over the running of the house again. Soup was prepared, stew simmered on the range, the kitchen table was scrubbed, the floor swept, the children’s clothes were washed and mended and John’s boots were polished, but Mary as she had been, vibrant, witty and laughing, was nowhere to be seen. Mary’s physical presence reminded them all of her spiritual absence and she was sorely missed by her family.

  The girls missed the stories of her childhood on her parents’ dairy farm in Tullibody. There was no gentle teasing, no playing or joining in with the baking. She wanted to know where they were so they had to stay within sight but they had to be quiet because her head hurt so much any noise irritated her.

  John had lost his partner, his inspiration. He tried to interest her in stories about his day at work, to encourage her to notice Chrissie’s needs, Margaret’s exploits and Isa’s schoolwork, but Mary was shut off from him, locked in her sorrow, numbed and isolated. There was no way to connect with her, except in the night when she sob
bed her pain and sought comfort. Then he could feel close to her; and he held her, soothed her, and waited for her recovery.

  Jessie was worried about her friend and neighbour. It was one thing to be grieving for her dead children, but what she saw was Mary abandoning the living ones. She’d call round in the afternoon and find Chrissie quiet and mournful, sitting on the floor sucking her thumb and pulling at the rag ends in the rug. Margaret would be chattering away to her doll but in hushed whispers and Mary would be involved in some mundane household chore but oblivious to where she was or what was going on. It wasn’t right, but nothing Jessie said or did got through to Mary.

  Instead Jessie played with the two youngsters for a bit and sometimes walked them up to the school to collect Isa and her own children at the gates. Then Chrissie and Margaret came alive. In the company of the other children they smiled, chatted, even sometimes laughed. And Jessie could see the three sisters hand in hand, tightly clinging to each other. If Chrissie ever let go of Isa’s hand Margaret called her back too. Often they placed Chrissie between them to make sure she was safe. Isa had the air of being much older than her years. Death had a way of doing that, Jessie knew. Some went under and never surfaced but others emerged stronger, able to swim ashore, determined to hold on to life no matter what. Isa had been under the cold wave of grief but was focused on getting back to the shore. Her mother, poor soul, was drowning.

  *

  “His she been like this every day?” Isa heard the disbelief in her grandmother’s voice as she spoke in hushed tones to her father. Mary was having a lie down while the wee ones were asleep. Isa was supposed to be doing her homework but she needed a corner of the kitchen table and the adults were talking over at the fireside just within her hearing.

  “Aye. I cannae get through tae her, Ina. I cannae shak’ her oot o’ it. God knows I’ve tried. I’m wurrit aboot the bairns when I’m at work. I dinnae think she notices whit they’re daein’ or whit they’re needin’.”

  “John this cannae ging on. She needs tae tak’ a tummle tae hersel’.” There was a pause. “Ah think she should come hame wi’ me tae the fairm. The bairns an aw’. They need a break awaw frae the hoose; fresh air an’ different things tae occupy their minds.”

  “Aye that’s a guid idea. And Isa can bide wi’ me and—”

  “Naw, John. She needs tae come awaw tae. She’s worn oot. She’s like a wraith. She’s hairdly speakin’. She’s been sair affected, John. She needs this as much as Mary does.”

  Even as she listened to her father and grandmother finalising the details, Isa became aware of muscles in her chest loosening, her body reviving at the thought of the farm.

  *

  “Granny, can I hae mair Rupert jam fir ma toast?” Margaret asked and then added a belated “please”.

  “Of course, dear. The rhubarb jam is in the dish with the wee bee on top. Noo Chrissie, hoo are ye gettin’ on wi yer egg?”

  Ina Murray was in her element. She was in her well-ordered, productive kitchen at the heart of the farm, and she had her beautiful granddaughters with her. Her heartbroken daughter was asleep at last after an anguished night. She’d heard her moans and cries and gone through to her, crying with her, feeling her pain and suffering, yet fighting for hope and for renewal. She did not want to see Mary give up so completely on living.

  Thankfully, up in her attic bedroom, under the soft down quilt, Isa for once had slept through her mother’s trauma and been spared her own nightmares. After a long, undisturbed sleep, she had woken with more peace in her heart and a wistful desire to see what the day might hold. It was as if someone had removed a stone from the pile that had been weighing down on her chest.

  “Isa! Isa! It’s time to git up,” Margaret called gently as she opened the door and peeped round it.

  “It’s aw’right. I’m awake. Come on in, Maggie. Did you sleep well?”

  “Aye, the bed was lovely and cosy. Granny says we can help bake the day. She’s goin’ to mak’ gingerbread and scones and says we can dae it wi’ her.”

  Isa felt another stone slip off her chest as her sister prattled enthusiastically about the plans for the day. Her innocent joy in life had suddenly bounced back and it was medicine for Isa’s soul to see her sister’s smile.

  “Chrissie’s just finishing her toast. There was real butter curls. Granny says she’ll show me hoo tae mak’ them when the milk’s churned.”

  “I better get washed and dressed or I’ll miss aw’ the excitement.” Isa lifted back the quilt and swung her feet to the rag rug on the floor. Margaret skipped back downstairs to the kitchen. Isa poured water from the ewer on the dresser into the wide shallow enamel basin and splashed her face. She felt really awake for the first time in a long while. Previous days had been lived in a dwam. She’d been dazed, only partially involved in anything she did, and distanced from all going on around her. But now, as she stood looking out through the frothy white net curtain at the window, gazing over the neat vegetable plots and flower beds near the house and the fields of grain and dairy cattle beyond, she breathed more consciously in and out, aware that this was a turning point and that she was glad of it.

  By dinner time the huge kitchen table, scrubbed clean and holding court in the centre of the kitchen, held trays of cooling gingerbread and scones at one end of its great length and at the other steaming bowls of broth for the midday meal. There was a plate of crusty bread already buttered and a dish of cottage cheese fresh from the dairy, covered with white muslin. Mary was up and dressed now and helped her mother serve the family. When the plate of bread ran low, Chrissie and Margaret were fascinated as their grandmother took the remains of the loaf on her crisp white apron between her knees and reached into the dish of butter curls with the large bread knife, which she swiped neatly over the white crumbly cut surface of the loaf, before carefully cutting to and fro to release the buttered slice for the plate. Her movements were practised, steady and deft and it was all rhythmically done as though to music. They’d never seen anyone else do it like this. Somehow it made the bread taste better and they asked for more, just to see the graceful movements again.

  When everyone was replete and the dishes cleared away, it was time to check the cakes. A careful push with the finger into the sponge surface revealed a dimple that sprang away again, leaving the surface smooth. They were cool enough. Out came the glass bowls, the icing sugar, the sifter and wooden spoons. Sugar was sifted into the bowls and water added. The gingerbreads were iced. Fingers went into the bowls when the adults weren’t looking and were licked surreptitiously. The task was soothing and absorbing. Chrissie was licking the bowl, her fingers and the spoons, and was now a happy, very sticky mess. The table was covered in fine powdered patterns from the sugar sifting but the gingerbreads looked good.

  “Noo girls. The men will be bringin’ in the coos soon for the milkin’. Will we get tidied up and go and watch?”

  They did not need to be asked twice. Chrissie was down from her chair, her hands held high. “Granny, My need wash my haunds. My don’t want tae mak’ the coos sticky.”

  And suddenly the kitchen was filled with laughter. More stones rolled off Isa’s chest as she spontaneously laughed at the picture Chrissie had created in her head. Instead of the clean, black and white jigsaw shapes covering her grandparents’ Friesian cows, her mind had created Chrissie-sized palm prints on their backs. Her grandmother’s heart leapt in relief. Her dear eldest granddaughter was coming back to life again.

  In the byre, the cows had already been led to their stalls. Each had her own place and the names were on plaques on the sides: Clover, Daisy, Miranda, Gertrude, Emmeline, Flo. There was fresh straw on the hard-packed earthen floor and its honeyed smell lingered over the manure and warm milk. The milking had begun. They could hear the steady squirting as the first milk hit the metal pails. The women sat on the right side of the cow facing in to its flank sometimes so close their brow touched the animal’s warm, suede-soft hide. Ina led the girls over to Flo�
��s stall, where the dairymaid Ethel had just sat down.

  She stroked the udder and wiped the teats with a clean wet cloth, then, humming gently to keep Flo calm, she took a teat in each hand and gently, using her fingers, squeezed the udder teats rhythmically one at a time, left hand then right hand. She was careful not to pull or stretch the teat as this caused the cow pain and stopped the milk flow. Gradually the sound changed as the bottom of the buckets filled and the milk rose to greater depth. The girls loved the sounds and the smells: the gentle mooing of the cows, their sweet breath and the splashing of the milk in the buckets. It was so soothing. When the cows had finished letting down their milk the dairymaids carefully wiped the teats and clapped the cow gently in thanks. They got up off their stools, draped the milk cloths over the tops of the pails and carried the milk through to the dairy.

  “Can we go tae the dairy too, Granny?” asked Margaret.

  “Of course,” said Ina and she led them back out through the byre and across the yard into the dairy. The farm at Tullibody was mainly a dairy farm and was known as The Doocot Dairy. They supplied the milk for the local shops and hotels and their butter and cheese were well sought after in the area. They took their products round the streets on a horse-drawn cart. The milk was kept in large, shiny urns with taps at the bottom. Customers could come with their jugs and cans and have them filled with milk from the tap. For a small farm it was well organised and the dairy shed was kept scrupulously clean. The children all had to wash their hands in hot, soapy water at the sink near the door before they went near the tiled shelf where the dairymaids worked.

  Betty and Ethel carefully poured the milk through the milk cloth into shallow earthenware trays. The girls were fascinated. “Why are they haudin’ the clooties o’er the pails?” asked Margaret.

  “That stops ony dirt that micht hae gotten intae the pail gettin’ intae the milk or the butter,” answered Isa, having seen this process before. “Then the milk lies in they shallow dishes . . . they’re called pancheons, aren’t they, Granny?”