Catherine of Deepdale Page 4

  ‘I do love you and I’m sorry I’ve been so horrid,’ she whispered. ‘Will you forgive me?’

  ‘Hush,’ he said as he ran his fingers through her hair, ‘it was my fault and there’s nothing to forgive.’

  ‘You said once you’d give me anything I asked for. Did you mean it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Well … when the house is ready I would like a proper bed, one with a headboard and a footboard.’ She sighed. ‘Mm, and a nice mattress and cotton sheets and an eiderdown.’

  ‘Anything your heart desires,’ said Robbie. He had not lost her. She was here with him and she was going to stay. Tenderly he began to caress her body; cupping her breast he teased her nipple. With feather-soft touch his hand travelled down to stroke the roundness of her hip and the length of her thigh, arousing her desire as he did so. Parting her legs he fondled the soft cushion there; found the warm, moist, heart of it. Aflame now and eager for the completeness of being with him Catherine wound her legs round him, clasped him to her and enfolded him. As one they climaxed in a wild tumult of passion.

  On that first night, when she and Robbie had slept in her father’s house, making love with him hadn’t been like that. Was this what their loving was really going to be like? Was this what she would have given away if she had left him? Without warning tears crept slowly down her face; as she wiped them away she turned her head to the pillow, glad that she’d changed her mind about leaving.

  Shivering as she stood there, wearing only her bra and pants, Catherine poured a jug of hot water into the wash basin. Never had she had to wash herself in such spartan conditions. Not long ago Sunday mornings would have seen her luxuriating in a warm bathroom, but there was no bathroom in any of the houses in Deepdale. Neither was there anything in the way of heating other than the kitchen stove. Having a bath meant washing everything within reach and if possible finding someone to wash your back. She would have to forgo that pleasure this morning, for Robbie had gone to assess how much work had to be done to their house.

  The piece of soap she had been given resisted all attempts to produce a lather. ‘It’s only fit for scrubbing the floor,’ she grumbled. She washed quickly, it was too cold to do otherwise, and got dressed. She picked up her shoes, cleaned now and partly restored to their former glory; she decided not to put them on, but slipped her feet into a pair of flat lace-ups instead.

  The wash basin emptied and returned to its place, she picked up her novel and went to the living room to wait for Robbie. Jannie was sitting at the table, the big family Bible open in front of her. She frowned when she saw the book in Catherine’s hand. ‘It is the Sabbath day,’ she said. ‘Do you not have a Bible?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘On the Lord’s Day we read the Good Book. We don’t knit or sew, we do nothin’ that’s not necessary and we go to the meetin’ house to be led to salvation.’

  ‘And what makes you think a preacher is going to help you do that?’ asked Catherine. ‘Surely practising your faith on a day-to-day basis is the right road to be on; you don’t need someone else to show you the way.’

  Clearly taken aback Jannie scowled. ‘I thought you were a Christian? Well, wi’ your heathen English ways you surely need salvation more than me.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ said Catherine, ‘but a heathen I am not.’

  At this Jannie compressed her mouth into a thin line and turned her attention to her Bible. ‘I don’t know what Robbie was thinkin’ about when he brought you home,’ she muttered.

  ‘What don’t you know, Mam?’ said Robbie as he opened the door.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Jannie.

  ‘Your mother thought I ought to be reading the Bible and when I said I didn’t have one she seemed to think you’d married a heathen.’

  ‘Catherine’s not a heathen, Mam.’ Robbie pushed the door shut behind him. ‘And you’ve no reason to say she is.’

  ‘I was taught to respect the Sabbath,’ said Jannie, a scowl on her face.

  ‘And who says we don’t?’ said Robbie, ‘we’re going to the meeting house wi’ you, aren’t we?’

  ‘Ay, well.’ Jannie bent her head to the pages of her Bible again, muttering something under her breath as she did so.

  ‘Put your coat on, Catherine, and come with me,’ said Robbie. When they were outside he spoke again. ‘I don’t know why they haven’t been in, but we’re going to see my aunts. I’m not sure what you’ll make of them. They’re a bit old-fashioned; still living in the past, you might say.’ He stopped at the door of his aunts’ house and, taking Catherine’s hand, opened the door. ‘Is anybody home?’ he called.

  ‘Come in, Robbie,’ said a disembodied voice.

  ‘I’ve brought someone to see you,’ he said as his aunts came forward to greet him. ‘This is Catherine, my wife. You’ll not have to speak Shetland to her, she’ll not understand.’ He turned to smile at Catherine. ‘This is Mina,’ he said, indicating the elder of the two women, ‘and this is Laura.’

  Mina Williams was tall; lean of build, she stood ramrod straight, black hair parted in the middle was pulled severely back into a bun.

  ‘Welcome to Shetland, lass,’ she said. ‘Jamie telled us you were here.’

  ‘So why did you not come along to say hello?’ asked Robbie.

  ‘She said yon wife was not happy, so we thought we’d wait.’

  Laura stepped forward. ‘So nice to see you, dear,’ she said.

  Laura was as short and round as Mina was tall and lean. Her soft grey hair, also pinned into a bun, rebelled at its confinement and sprouted stray wisps.

  ‘What are you doin’, Laura? These folk will be wantin’ tea,’ snapped Mina.

  ‘Oh, yeh, yeh,’ said Laura as she ducked her head and scuttled away.

  Catherine had warmed to Laura and a smile had started to light up her face, now it faded away. Why had Mina spoken to Laura in such a domineering way?

  ‘Thanks, Mina,’ said Robbie, ‘but we’ll not be stopping long. We’ve promised to go over to Rose’s for tea and Mam will be putting our dinner on the table soon. We’ll come by another time. I just wanted you to meet Catherine.’

  ‘Ay, it’s fine to have you back, Robbie, but you can sit for a minute, tell me what you’ve been up to.’

  The chair Catherine was invited to sit on was as hard and uncomfortable as those in Jannie’s house. She sat opposite Mina and while Robbie was being quizzed she studied her. The woman sat bolt upright. A shawl round her shoulders was pinned together with a brooch. A long black skirt reaching down to her ankles, stopped short to reveal feet in lace-up boots, placed neatly side by side.

  The room, as austere as Jannie’s, was as neat as a new pin. It too was plainly furnished and there against one wall was another large box-bed. On the hearth a peat fire glowed, and hanging from a hook in the chimney a kettle puffed steam. But no cat sat on a chair or the floor here.

  Robbie was right: the aunts had not kept up with the times. But neither had Deepdale it seemed, and if the clock could be turned back fifty years everything would be in its proper place.

  ‘Excuse me, dear,’ said Laura as, teapot in one hand and a pot holder in the other, she reached for the kettle. Tipping it forward she poured boiling water into the pot. As she turned away she hesitated, once again her eyes met Catherine’s and a warm smile lit her face.

  Laura’s clothes were almost identical to Mina’s, but the face that peeped out from the unruly hair was as round and pleasant as Mina’s was lined and stern. What had Laura done to deserve such a sister? The saying, ‘still waters run deep’ came to Catherine’s mind and she wondered just how deep the emotions might be that ran under Laura’s pleasant exterior.

  ‘Tell me about yourself now, Catherine,’ said Mina when tea had been handed round. ‘What did you do during the war?’

  ‘I was a nurse in a hospital in Southampton,’ said Catherine.

  ‘We were overrun with soldiers and airmen,’ said Mina. ‘Local
lasses behaved in a disgusting way, getting with child with no idea who the father might be. God will wreak his vengeance.’ She slapped her hand on to her thigh.

  Oh dear, thought Catherine, another Jannie.

  ‘They violated the teachings o’ the scriptures,’ Mina went on. She looked at Catherine, ‘You must be a God-fearing young woman, for you married in church. What is your religion?’

  ‘Aagh … Church of England,’ said Catherine, mentally crossing all her fingers. Although she was still a believer her faith had suffered a severe shock when she had seen pictures of what man had done to man in the concentration camps in Germany. She had questioned why a loving God had allowed that to happen and had found no answers. She believed that Christianity should be practised daily, and attending church on a Sunday was no proof of adherence to that. Church of England, she had said, hoping that there wasn’t one on Shetland.

  ‘Ah well, it’ll no matter, you can come to the meeting house wi’ us.’

  ‘We’re going tonight with Rose so we’ll see you there, but we’ve got to go now or Mam’ll be fretting,’ said Robbie. ‘Fine to see you, you’re looking well. Thanks for the tea. Bye.’ As he closed the door behind them he said to Catherine, ‘Well, now you’ve met all the inhabitants of Deepdale, what do you think?’

  ‘How do those two survive? What do they live on?’

  ‘They get a share of tatties and neeps, potatoes and turnips to you, because they help with planting and harvest, and I guess they’ve got some savings.’

  ‘Why did Mina speak to Laura the way she did? And why did she change her speech when she spoke to me?’

  Robbie laughed. ‘Mina was ‘talking proper’ to you, “knappin” we call it.’ He pronounced it k-nappin.

  ‘You’ll have to teach me the dialect so I can understand.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll learn.’

  SEVEN

  ROBBIE AND CATHERINE were on their way to the Hayfield croft, home to Rose and Bobbie Robertson and young Billie. They had left Deepdale and were climbing the hill to the moor when Catherine asked why they were going that way.

  ‘Because it’s a fine day,’ said Robbie. ‘We could have gone by the road, but that would have taken longer.’

  It was a steep climb. At the top Catherine said, ‘I can’t go any further.’

  Robbie put an arm round her shoulders and turned her to look back the way they’d come. She slipped an arm round his waist and leaned against him.

  ‘You can’t see anything of home except the bay,’ he said, then, putting his head close to hers, he pointed at a wave-washed rocky outcrop topped with sparse green turf beyond the headland, ‘but see that island out there? That’s Mouat’s Craig. I’m going to set pots there and hope that I’ll get a fine catch of lobsters.’

  ‘Do you know how?’ asked Catherine.

  ‘No, not exactly, but I’ll learn. I know they like to be near rocks and on a sandy sea-bed. Round Mouat’s Craig should be just the right place.’

  ‘You will be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Have you got your wind back? Are you ready to go on?’

  They walked on, Catherine behind Robbie as he followed one of the narrow winding paths made by the hill sheep that skirted patches of bright green moss and pools of water. They stopped to watch as a hare, its coat patched brown where it was losing its winter white, leapt up from almost under their feet to bounce away, leaping, running and zigzagging till it was out of sight. Keeping to the sheep trails they crossed the moor and, wending their way through the humps and hollows of the peat banks, were at last on the track made by the ponies and carts used to carry home the cured peat. The way was downhill now and they walked side by side.

  Billie saw them coming, and when they reached the Hayfield croft Rose came out to meet them. She put her arms round Catherine, ‘You’re a bonnie lass,’ she said. ‘I see why you wed her, Robbie. Come in.’

  Pretty curtains hung at Rose’s windows and her house was brighter and more comfortable than Jannie’s or the aunts’ and to Catherine’s relief there was no sign of a box-bed. Billie had followed them in; now, hands in pockets he lolled against the wall and stood looking at her.

  ‘Don’t just stand there,’ said his mother. ‘Get your father.’ Without a word Billie went out. ‘He tells me you’re going to do up Laurie’s house, Robbie.’

  ‘That’s the plan.’

  ‘What will you do, Catherine, when Robbie’s at work?’ said Rose.

  ‘I’m going to be Doctor Lumsden’s cleaner.’

  ‘Are you? What about his wife? I thought she did that.’

  ‘He told me she’s not in good health and Kay said she was a sickly body.’

  ‘Ay, maybe.’ Rose smiled, but did not enlarge on her comment. She looked at Robbie. ‘And have you got a job yet?’

  ‘I’ll be fishin’ for lobsters; Daa’s give me the boat. Ay, here’s Bobbie.’

  Bobbie Robertson had spent a life at sea, and wind and salt water had tanned and weathered his face till it was nut brown. His blue eyes twinkled as he clapped a hand on Robbie’s shoulder, then smiled at Catherine and wished her welcome.

  Catherine listened as Bobbie and Rose plied Robbie with questions about his time in the navy. When they lapsed into the dialect she understood nothing.

  ‘Come, sit down and eat, all of you,’ said Rose when she had piled the table with food. ‘We don’t want to be late for the meeting.’

  The little chapel at Norravoe was filling rapidly when they reached it. Jannie, Daa and the aunts were already there. Robbie ushered Catherine to sit with them and took a seat beside her.

  The interior of the building was very plain: whitewashed walls, benches and pulpit of varnished wood. On a table in front of the pulpit was a small font flanked by a pair of brass candlesticks. There were no flowers. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling. A cool, slightly damp, unlived-in smell tainted with a faint aroma of pine filled the air, mixed now with the varying odours of warm bodies.

  The congregation ranged in age from the very old to the extremely young. Conversations went on in whispers. Children fidgeted. All came to a stop when a door opened and a woman carrying a book and a sheaf of paper walked through. She was followed by an elderly man, small and thin, so thin that his clothes flapped about him as he walked. He wore a black suit, in contrast with which his shirt was startlingly white. A fringe of sparse hair ringed his scalp. He climbed the stairs to the pulpit and as he did so, despite his meagre weight, each step creaked in protest. He sat down, then leaned forward to put his head in his hands and disappear from sight. The woman sat at a harmonium and began to play.

  Winter had not been kind to the instrument; damp had crept into the fabric of its bellows as well as its internal workings, which made its performance somewhat erratic. As she pedalled manfully in an attempt to get it to produce something more than an asthmatic rendering of the piece she was playing, the organist’s face was flushed, and, due to the fact that she shook her head whenever a note was off key her hatpins began to come loose, which set her hat adrift.

  It began first as a smile, just a small quirk of the lips as Catherine, in an effort to take her mind off the organist, studied the bare pate of the preacher who was now sitting upright, his eyes closed. But then the smile broke into the suspicion of a giggle when the harmonium went into top gear to bellow out what should have been played pianissimo. The giggle was quickly smothered, but it would not be completely still and Catherine, hand clamped over her mouth, bent her head and prayed that the preacher would announce the first hymn while her shoulders shook and the chuckle persisted, bubbling up and trying hard to be free.

  Beside her Robbie was hardly able to suppress a smile himself. He looked at his mother’s stony face, shook his head and mouthed, ‘Something’s gone the wrong way,’ while he patted Catherine’s back.

  The preacher stood and in a deep bass voice, boomed, ‘We will open our tervice today wit hymn number tix hundred and tixty-tix.’

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p; Catherine buried her head in her hands, laughter threatened to burst forth again. Robbie thumped her hard on the back till she coughed and spluttered and wiped her streaming eyes.

  No one in the chapel or anywhere between it and Lerwick could have failed to hear that voice. Where on earth had it come from? The harmonium wheezed, the organist played the opening bars and the congregation stood, opened their hymn books and burst into song. Catherine stood too and after a while began to sing as well. After the hymn and when the congregation were settled in their seats again the organist played softly while the collection was taken up. A chapel worthy, wearing a tweed suit and conker-bright boots, carried the offertory box. With every step he took his boots squeaked. Was there to be no end to this farce? In an effort to contain a laugh Catherine snorted, clapped her hands across her face and bent her head to cover her embarrassment.

  There was to be no more cause for merriment however. As the service proceeded the lessons read were gloomy, the hymns in minor keys were, too. By the time the preacher began his sermon Catherine’s expression was grim.

  For a man with such a wasted frame the power of his voice was amazing. His enthusiasm for the scriptures knew no bounds; fanatic in his delivery he beat the top of the pulpit with his fist to drive home a point. Hellfire and damnation was his theme and he promised nothing but eternal misery if the commandments were not obeyed to the letter.

  Catherine’s mood grew dark, then darker. Where was the God of love? Obviously not to be found in this chapel. Beside her, Jannie nodded her head and murmured her agreement with what the preacher was saying.

  Still the little man went on. Waving his arms he sobbed, mopped his brow and streaming eyes, lapsed into near silence, then, as he gave one last exhortation, he seized the sides of the pulpit and threw himself forward. There was a concerted gasp from every member of the congregation as they, like Catherine, took a metaphorical step back, fully expecting him to shoot out of the pulpit and land on the floor at their feet. Not so; with a sigh he stood back to breathe, ‘Amen’, which was resoundingly echoed from all corners.