A Changing Land(42)
‘Enough of your melancholic women’s tales.’ Robert was on his feet, tugging at his homespun woollen jumper. ‘Regardless of your inclination, the facts remain the same, lad. You only need direct the solicitor to give you the value in cash. Either you make the call or I will.’
‘I’d imagine Sarah would have to sell a part of the property.’ His mother’s softly persuasive tone resonated through the cramped confines of their living area.
‘And who are you most concerned about, Sarah or her father?’ Robert left the small crofter’s cottage, slamming the door behind him.
Jim looked from his untouched tea to his beloved mother. Having already discussed the possibility of him flying to Australia, it was now becoming increasingly important to him as the days progressed. He would prefer to have never known about his true parentage, yet he needed to meet his real father. And there was another part of him, he guessed the Gordon part, that wanted to see the land that a Scot managed to carve out for himself over one hundred and thirty years ago. If only his mother were not so against the idea.
He walked outside to a day grown bright. From their small house on the edge of the hill, patches of heather extended outwards, interspersed with rocks and dirt. The landscape extended downwards towards the loch that shimmered invitingly in the midmorning light. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his corduroy trousers, Jim walked the slight distance between house and water, his sturdy lace-ups crunching pebbles underfoot. His mother was right – he did love this land.
He was unaware of her presence until her warm hand linked itself through his arm. Together they stared out at the loch, at the treeless hills surrounding the water’s grey beauty.
‘If you go to Australia you may get your inheritance, Jim,’ she touched his cheek gently, ‘but you will lose your Sarah forever and you will never be the same on your return.’ She squeezed his arm tenderly. ‘She won’t be able to forgive you if she is her father’s daughter.’
His mother’s voice trembled. Jim patted her hand. ‘Yet he is my father as well.’ And you loved him he thought sadly. He leant down to select a smooth pebble at his feet. ‘He wronged you.’ He turned the pale grey stone in his fingers, weighing the cool rock carefully. There were unsaid words within his mother’s pale eyes. He sensed a need for her to unburden. Jim waited for her to speak, imagined a shifting of memories, a sorting of explanations dulled by time and censored by a mother’s love. The moment was blown aimlessly away by a lift in the morning breeze. Angrily he flung the pebble expertly across the loch’s surface. The rock skipped effortlessly across the face of the wind-rippled water, and on the fifth bounce it sank from view.
Mrs Stackland shooed the two maids out of her way and opened the oven door on the cast iron stove with a thick piece of towelling. She swiftly turned the loaf of bread and cinnamon biscuits out onto the wooden table; the aroma of freshly baked goods circulated with the scent of burning wood. Mrs Stackland prodded at both bread and biscuits, a slight smile the only indication of her pleasure. With a beckoning nod of her greying head she gestured to the younger and less clumsy of her helpers, Margaret, showing the girl how to prise the warm biscuits off the baking tray and place them to cool on a wire rack.
‘Mind you don’t break any. We don’t serve broken biscuits at table,’ Mrs Stackland reprimanded her newest recruit as the thin, agile fingers placed the biscuits carefully on the rack. She dabbed at her brow with the length of her apron, uncomfortably aware of the moisture soaking the back and front of her bodice. ‘Butter and dripping, Margaret, and be quick, girl.’ The kitchen would be a furnace by midday if she didn’t have the majority of her menu prepared by eleven. There was little time for dawdling.
A large scrub turkey, plucked and ready for roasting, sat wrapped in a swathe of calico. Lifting a heavy pan from a side table she unwrapped the freshly killed bird and sat it tenderly in it. She surveyed the pile of vegetables to be peeled, then there was the plum pudding that had to be reheated in the steam boiler and an apple pie to be baked, for Mr Gordon demanded pie twice a week, Christmas or not. And Lee, Mrs Stackland realised with some irritation, was late with the preserved lemons for the custard and the bush quail she intended making into a tasty pie. She cut the fresh bread smartly in two and placed half the loaf onto a large tray, adding a plate of the biscuits. From the shelf above the stove she took the teapot and added a good handful of tea-leaves and then water from the steaming kettle. A quick glance confirmed the near completion of sizzling meat in a large skillet. Martha, the older of the maids, poked at it disinterestedly, as if she had something better to do than to ensure Mr Gordon’s meat was perfect.