A Changing Land(68)







Robert Macken gulped down the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘A fine breakfast, Maggie. Fine indeed.’ He pushed the wooden chair back roughly. The legs caught on the rug beneath and he swore softly under his breath. ‘Have you heard from Jim?’

Maggie collected the empty cup along with her husband’s plate as he stood, stretching his back out. She shook her head.

‘I accepted the lad as my own. You know that, Maggie, and I have no problem with him not being mine. I don’t know why I tell you this now after so many years.’

Maggie left the dirty breakfast dishes on the end of the wooden table to place a small white hand on her husband’s chest. She looked up into his pale eyes.

‘I want the lad to get the money that’s owing to him and come home,’ Robert stated as he brushed her hair with his lips. He lifted his cap from the peg on the wall, flicking at the brim as if new.

Maggie moved to rest her head on his chest. Since Jim’s leaving she’d refrained from arguing against the lad’s inheritance. What was the point? He’d gone despite her protests. Now her nights were filled with anxiety as she wondered why she’d not done more to stop him.

‘There’s much we can do with the money.’ Robert rubbed his hands together. ‘A new sty for the pigs and a John Deere tractor: Aye, not a big one mind. I’d clear that field behind the milker’s shed and we’d have to move those rocks.’ He adjusted the cap, hitched up his trousers. ‘There’s a few days’ work in that.’ He rubbed his lower back at the thought of it. ‘Wouldn’t I love to see the look on Lord Andrews’ face when I tell him that I’ve no need of his contract?’

Maggie busied herself wiping imaginary crumbs from the table into the palm of her hand.

‘You all right then, lass? You’re looking a bit peaky.’

Maggie brushed her hand against the floral cotton of her dress. ‘Never been much of a morning person, Robert. I expect my age is catching up with me.’

‘Rubbish. Steady as a black-faced ewe climbing a rocky hillside you are, my Maggie.’ He rumpled her hair, rested a large hand briefly on her shoulder and gave it a shake. ‘We’d have enough produce to sell direct to the supermarket. And I was thinking eggs, laying hens. Just enough to sell in Tongue first off and then we’ll see how it goes. Once the lad’s back we’d be able to manage the feeding of them, and the gathering. When we’re established we’ll get one of the Childers’ girls in to help with the sorting. That would be good for you too, Maggie,’ he clucked her under the chin. ‘Bit of female company eh?’

‘That would be good, aye.’

‘Well sound a bit keen about it, lass.’

Maggie untied her apron. She needed some fresh air. ‘They’re grand plans, Robert.’

Robert winked at her, picked up his wallet. ‘I’d add a room to this house too.’ He surveyed the tiny crofter’s cottage. The ground floor served as kitchen, living and dining area. ‘I’d build a new bookcase.’ He scraped his socks on the threadbare rug, ‘and carpet –’

‘You’ll be late,’ Maggie gently reminded him. Robert was meeting Mr Levi, the solicitor, in Tongue. There was an accountant arriving from Edinburgh to discuss the tax implications of Jim’s impending fortune.

Robert kissed her on the cheek and she helped him with his tweed jacket. Although it was summer the breeze from the loch was cold when she opened the door and Maggie shrugged her shoulders into her homespun cardigan as Robert stepped from the threshold.

‘It’ll be the most pleasure I’ve enjoyed in years, telling Lord Andrews he can stick his measly wool contract up his ill-gotten kilt.’

Maggie watched her husband drive away in his old pick-up. The vehicle made a grating noise and puffed dark smoke from its exhaust as Robert changed gears to drive up the slight hill to the left of the house. She smelled diesel and added a new pick-up to her husband’s list of improvements. She supposed she should be grateful for his excitement, yet she didn’t think she could live with someone else’s money, especially this money. It was wrong.





The air carried a whiff of moisture as Maggie left the whitewashed cottage. The loch rippled at the pebbled shoreline as she turned from the east and followed a low stone wall that ran past the house up the side of the hill. In her youth Maggie dreamt of being a famous athlete, a long distance runner. She would tuck her skirt into her knickers, and run the length of the loch bordering her parents’ small block that lay some miles to the east. She had no running shoes then. Her brown lace-ups sped her around the loch as she slithered on pebbles, slippery with the misty breath of the night. If the wind was behind her on those dawn-lit mornings she would lift her arms in freedom, feeling the crick of her ankles as she stumbled with joy. On the weekends when school was done and she could wangle time away from her mother, she would add a scramble up the hill next to the loch as part of her running course. From this vantage point she would catch her breath amid the tangle of green and purple vegetation.

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