Bury Her Deep

3

There was hardly a moment between tea by the fire and the early dinner which was to allow Lorna and me to get to the meeting on time, but Mr Tait just managed to show me the few points of interest in his church – a stone pulpit carved all over with representations of twining branches which made it look rather varicosed and a gargoyle grimacing from the top of a pillar – while I snatched the chance to run through my plan for the evening.

Such as it was. Mr Tait had sent me the names of the women who had reported encountering the dark stranger and I had committed them to memory but my intention was to accompany home another of the ladies, someone who lived a fair walk from the village, in the hope that tonight she might be the one and I might be a witness – a very faint hope since all the previous victims had been alone.

‘Are the women organised into parties now?’ I asked. ‘Surely none of them is brave enough still to walk home without a companion? Come to that, I find it odd that the meetings are rolling on at all. If this has been going on since the spring, I mean. I wonder the husbands and fathers haven’t put their feet down and ordered their womenfolk to stay away.’

‘I rather think most of them go along with the police sergeant’s view of things,’ said Mr Tait. ‘And in a couple of cases I know that the wives have encouraged them in it, precisely because they would otherwise put their feet down and the women would never get off the farm again. As to banding together… I did suggest that Lorna might get my old Napier out and ferry them – she can handle it although it’s a bit of an antique now – but they seem to relish the fresh air and the extra measure of freedom that their moonlit walks afford them.’

We had come out of the church again and were threading along the gravel path between the gravestones towards the gate. Out on the green, the skipping game was still going strong, two volunteers keeping the rope whipping round as a chain of girls wove in and out of it, concentrating fiercely and singing as they went:

‘Here she comes, there she goes,

Here she comes, there she goes,

Here she comes, there she goes…’

It was rather mesmerising and Mr Tait and I paused to watch them. On and on it went and I was beginning to wonder if they would simply keep going until called into bed, when at last one stumbled in the rope and all the others yelled: ‘Caught you!’

The unfortunate one untangled her ankles and with a fairly gracious shrug took over one end of the rope, letting the girl who had been holding it join the rest. Slowly the two girls began to work up a rhythm again and when the rope was whirring round faster than ever, one of them shouted ‘Not last night’ and the others began singing.

‘Not last night but the night before

Thirteen grave robbers came to my door.

Dig her up and rattle her bones.

Bury her deep, she’s all alone.

Dark night, moonlight,

Haunt me till my hair’s white.

Moonlight, dark night,

Shut the coffin lid tight.

Knock knock, who’s there?

Knock knock, who’s there?

Knock knock, who’s there?’

Their voices followed us as we crossed towards the manse and we were just passing through the gate when the chanting stopped and a chorus of voices yelled: ‘Maggie.’

‘It’s very democratic, skipping, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I only have sons, as you know, and none of their games are anything like as fair as that.’

‘Only it doesn’t do to listen too closely to the words of the songs,’ said Mr Tait. ‘Just like nursery rhymes. If you were told the meanings of the sweetest little nursery rhymes, it would make your toes curl.’

‘So I believe,’ I said. ‘Especially the eighteenth-century ones – the three men in a tub, for instance, are best left well alone.’

After dinner, Lorna and I set out well wrapped against the raw evening to make the short journey across the green and down to the school where the SWRI meetings were held. All around us, cottage doors slammed as we passed and soon we were heading a small caravan of village women. I wondered briefly whether it was fear of the dark stranger making them move en masse like this, but I soon concluded that it was just their natural politeness and sense of what was due to Lorna as the minister’s daughter which led them to watch out for her and fall into step.

We could see the faint outline of another group coming up the lane towards us and there was a light bobbing in the darkness further away across the field, someone with a lantern taking a short cut from one of the farms.

‘A beautiful night,’ said Lorna, turning her face up to the sky. ‘There should be a good turn-out on a clear, dry night like this.’

‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘Your father hinted at some disapproval. In fact, he seemed to be worried that the venture might fold altogether.’

‘Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,’ said Lorna. ‘There was a bit of opposition at first, and we’re treading carefully but-’ She was interrupted by the sound of a motor car coming up the lane from the main road. It overtook the foot party in the distance and swept ahead of us at the corner, everyone drawing in to the hedge to let it pass, whereupon Lorna said under her breath: ‘Or at least we’re trying to.’

‘This is most unfortunate, Miss Tait,’ said a voice from behind me, and a squat little person, fair of skin and pale of lash, with all her hair tucked into a crocheted tammy, drew abreast of us and stared after the motor car, shaking her head and frowning.

‘Now, Miss McCallum,’ said Lorna. ‘We welcome all comers, don’t we?’

‘Hmph,’ said Miss McCallum. ‘The women don’t come to sit and be laughed at.’

There was no time to follow up this intriguing exchange; we had arrived at the school and we trooped into the porch to wriggle out of our coats and unwind our scarves and mufflers, although Miss McCallum, I noticed, kept on the crocheted tammy which, being an inspid shade of pale peach, did nothing at all to enliven her shrimp-like colouring. Indeed, I noticed that there were an inordinate number of crocheted garments amongst the gathering: a few cardigan jerseys, one ambitious if rather droopy tabard, and a smattering of shawls. Lorna had restricted herself, very sensibly I thought, to carrying a crocheted work-bag.

Through in the schoolroom a ring of chairs had been set, and a fire was burning cheerfully in the grate. A young woman, unmistakably a schoolmistress with her long black skirt bagged about the knees from sitting on low chairs and with chalk smears across the back of her black crocheted jersey, clapped her hands and cried out a rather strained welcome.

‘Here we are, here we are,’ she said, and I thought I recognised the note in her voice. It was just the note which used to creep into mine when Nanny finally returned to the nursery after a long absence to relieve me of an infant who had, of course, begun to snivel as soon as she left and was now boiling hot, soaked in angry tears and shrieking like a train. The reason for the present panic stood before the hearth: two ladies, surely the occupants of the motor car which had swept past us in the lane, warming themselves and lighting cigarettes in long holders with a taper from the fire. They turned and waved.

‘Lorna, darling,’ said what I decided must be the elder of the two, a fine high-breasted figure, who was standing four-square in front of the chimneypiece. ‘Look at us. Aren’t you proud?’ She jabbed the end of her cigarette holder first at her own chest and then at that of her companion, who struck an angular pose beside her. Two excrescences in brown wool were attached to their clothes.

‘We’ve crocheted ourselves a brooch each,’ said the younger one. ‘Supposed to be heart-shaped – with a crown on top, naturally – but they’ve come out looking like mincemeat pies.’

Miss McCallum in her tammy turned a deep and painful shade of pink and flumped down onto the nearest of the ring of seats, her breast heaving with affront under her own heart-shaped brooch which was only just managing to hold her cardigan closed.

‘Ahem, yes,’ said the schoolmistress. ‘Perhaps I should explain. It’s Mrs Gilver, isn’t it?’ At this, the two ladies felt they had been given permission to notice me without seeming forward, and they both smiled. ‘When we have a suitable demonstration one month we try to bring along – or even wear – our efforts the next month and Miss McCallum, our postmistress, gave us a splendid practical demonstration of crochet in September so-’ At this point she was interrupted.

‘And what brings you to this forgotten corner of Christendom?’ asked the younger lady, giving up on her cigarette and stubbing it out against the chimneypiece before tossing it into the flames.

‘Mrs Gilver is giving the talk next month,’ said Lorna. ‘And she’s come along tonight to learn the ropes.’

‘But my darling Lorna, what a triumph for you.’ She grinned at Lorna who smiled uncertainly back, and then she turned her attention to me. ‘I’m Nicolette Howie of Luckenlaw House,’ she said, ‘and this is my sister Vashti. Come over to the fire. It’s dismal in this place if you venture an inch from the hearth. Come and get warm.’

I could hardly refuse, but this development was entirely counter to my hopes and plans for the evening. I wanted to be unobtrusively ensconced amongst the villagers, listening to their talk and trying to guide them towards the topic that interested me above all, not making a trio with these two fish out of water, and missing everything. Worse even, I noticed that their presence seemed to be subduing the rest of the women to the extent that there would be nothing to miss, for the other members of the institute took their seats in near silence, despite the schoolmistress’s continued attempts to jolly everyone up. Presently a deputation of very lowly women – I should have guessed at labourers’ wives – arrived and their faces sank when they saw the party at the fireplace. I could sympathise; what rotten luck to tramp across the fields hoping to let one’s hair down only to find that one’s betters, with whom one’s hair must stay firmly up, have beaten one to it.

I suppose it could be argued that there was nothing to choose between my presence and theirs when it came to fitting in except that, while I had been all set to keep my head down, everything about them set them apart, from the casual cigarettes to the clothes they wore, startling get-ups for any setting, but quite ludicrous here in the schoolroom this evening. The one who had been introduced as Vashti – a name, incidentally, which I only knew because I had had a Dartmoor pony called that when I was seven (it was supposed to be a carriage pony, but I do not remember it ever being persuaded into harness, although I do remember it nipping me hard on the arm once when I stroked it) – had kept her long hair and wore it wound up in a thin silk scarf making a kind of turban shape. With this she wore an evening dress of a vaguely Eastern style, a long square tunic and an even longer skirt underneath it, very wide sleeves and an indistinct pattern of peacock feathers and lotus flowers in a lozenge shape over the middle part, which had surely been introduced onto the garment by the application of some kind of craftwork rather than by dressmaking proper. It looked like a potato print to me. This peculiar costume was in several shades of pea-green and murky purple and did nothing at all to enhance its wearer’s dark complexion, making her look, in fact, rather dirty.

The other woman, Nicolette, did not appear to have changed, causing one to wonder at the running of their presumably shared home, but wore a little wool suit, very tight and short and electric blue in colour. She had high heels to her shoes and a tiny hat of red wool rather low over one eye. As well as the crochet-work brooch on her lapel, she wore at least four strings of pearls and coloured beads, and around her wrists she had several enormous art-jewellery bangles in pewter, enamel and what might be rather nasty bright gold. Her fingers too were jammed with garish rings, large, cheap stones such as amber and amethyst, set about not by diamonds which can make an amethyst ring rather pretty, but with more of the same bright gold. They looked the kind of trinket found in a Moroccan market, the kind of trinket I had considered bringing home from my honeymoon as presents for my bridesmaids until I thought sensibly about how they would look under the cold, grey, English skies and reached instead for cushions.

Neither lady seemed to mind, or even to notice, me staring at them. They were fussing over Lorna, with great affection.

‘Darling,’ said Vashti. ‘It’s been an age since we saw you.’

‘And I’ve won a bet,’ added Nicolette. ‘I told Vash you wouldn’t be adorned.’ She jabbed Lorna’s work-bag with a crimson fingertip. ‘She insisted you would. Ten shillings you owe me, Vashti.’

Lorna laughed uncomfortably and glanced over her shoulder to where Miss McCallum sat, ostentatiously not listening to this traducing of her art.

‘You sweep, Niccy,’ said Vashti. ‘How dare you. She’s adorned with a bag. She’s adorned to the nines. That counts, doesn’t it, Mrs Gilver?’

‘Dandy,’ I said, glad to be able to respond without actually answering. Before she could press me, there came a loud clapping from behind me in the room. The schoolmistress, perhaps unable to help herself, was summoning the attention of the gathering in the way that schoolmistresses do. I spied an empty chair at the other side of the room and made for it purposefully, leaving Lorna and the two interlopers behind me.

‘Can anyone just sit anywhere?’ I whispered to the woman next to me – a ruddy-faced type I took to be a farmer’s wife. She nodded and gave a tight smile.

‘Now then, ladies,’ began the schoolmistress, ‘we have a packed programme tonight. Mrs Hemingborough has kindly offered to provide a demonstration of plucking a bird, with suggestions of what to do with the feathers. As well as that we have Sister MacAllister from the children’s ward at the Victoria here to lecture us on infant nutrition – I’m sure we’re all looking forward to that. Our competition is “A Pot of Bramble Jelly” and we’ll be voting for the winner with a silver shower as usual. Now, before I hand you over to Miss McCallum for tonight’s motto and roll-call, I just want to welcome Mrs Gilver here.’ Thirty pairs of eyes swivelled in my direction and I gave a faint simper in recognition. ‘Mrs Gilver is speaking next month on “The Household Budget” and she has come along tonight to have a recce, since there is no Rural in her own village in Perthshire. Who knows? Maybe tonight will light the spark, Mrs Gilver.’ There was a general titter at this and I joined in, while thinking my quiet thoughts. ‘In a spirit of welcome,’ she finished, ‘I would like to invite Mrs Gilver to decide on tonight’s social half-hour. It can be anything at all, Mrs Gilver: dancing, singing, games, stories. Or even just a chat.’ She beamed at me, unaware of the cold stone she had just settled on my chest. Of course! How could I not have known? How could I doubt that to be a guest at any gathering with a committee is to be instantly handed the most unwelcome task. Why only the summer before I had gone along to a fair, all innocence, and found myself judging bonny babies so of course I was going to lead the ladies of the village in song tonight. Of course I was.

The blood thundering in my ears had drowned out all external affairs for a moment, and when I returned to the room Miss McCallum had taken the floor.

‘Thank you, Miss Lindsay,’ she said, nodding to the schoolmistress. ‘I’m glad to see so many of you wearing the results of your forays into crochet tonight.’ There was a little smothered laughter from the corner where Vashti and Nicolette Howie had settled and two spots of pink bloomed high up on Miss McCallum’s pale cheeks, but she raised her plump chin and carried on. ‘I propose that the motto of this evening’s meeting should be: If you are wrong, regret it; if you are wronged, forget it.’ There was a round of fierce applause from the audience at that, and I found myself murmuring: ‘Hear, hear!’

‘Absolutely,’ said Vashti from her corner. ‘Very well said.’ Although her tone was as superior as ever, the general mood of the room took on a conciliatory tinge and we moved on to the fowl-plucking demonstration in a spirit of comradeship; much the best spirit with which to face dead poultry out of the blue.

Mrs Hemingborough, another amply proportioned matron as tightly trussed in her good calico blouse and worsted skirt as any chicken could ever hope to be, calmly slid a basket from under her chair and drew out a sheet of sacking which she spread upon the floor at her feet, a crisp apron which she put on and tied firmly under her bust and, finally, two dead hens. These provoked a variety of reactions amongst the assembly. Nicolette and Vashti Howie shrieked. Lorna Tait looked as though she might have liked to shriek but instead she took a deep breath and beamed. Others, those who were most unmistakably farmers’ wives, looked on with either politely concealed boredom or gimlet-eyed readiness to find Mrs Hemingborough’s technique sadly wanting. Miss Lindsay and Miss McCallum, who I was beginning to suspect were the instigators and chief defenders of the SWRI in Luckenlaw, sat forward looking eager if rather pale and several others of the village women also stirred themselves into greater alertness: here, they seemed to say, was something worth coming out for on a cold, dark night, no matter the mixed company one had to endure to get it. And to be fair, it was more interesting than one might have imagined, as it always is to watch someone do something he is very good at. (I spent hours hanging over the estate carpenter’s workshop door as a girl, goggling, with my mouth hanging open and my brain absolutely empty and I would do so still if I thought I could get away with it.) The noise of the ripping out was a tiny bit sickening, especially with the old boiling fowl – Mrs Hemingborough had brought one of these as well as a plump young hen to show the different techniques demanded by each – and some of the suggestions for the use of the feathers were beyond arresting – I could not foresee myself making a poultice of boiled feathers and bran should I ever come down with a blister – but the time passed and soon the sacking was tied around the mound of feathers, the apron and newly naked fowl were back in Mrs Hemingborough’s basket and it was time for tea.

‘Which I’m sure we’re all ready for,’ said Miss Lindsay, bravely, through lips still blue-ish from disgust. ‘There’s nothing like…’ but she gave up. The tea, which she took with lots of sugar and no milk, soon revived her however and we sturdier souls dug into the accompanying scones with gusto. I had imagined that such a forum as an SWRI meeting – all of one’s female neighbours gathered together and paying attention and no men (always so easy to please and therefore quite irrelevant) – would bring forth some fiercely excellent scones and I was right. We promenaded the room scooping spoonfuls of bramble jelly from competing pots as Lorna explained to me the working of the ‘silver shower’; one put a sixpence down beside one’s favoured pot of jelly and thus the winner was chosen and the picnic funds swollen too, and it seemed such a neat and decorous sort of competition that, added to the warmth and chumminess, I was almost ready to go home and start agitating for a Rural of my own. I settled back into my seat again feeling full, cosy, and suffused with sisterly bonhomie.

Sister MacAllister of the Victoria soon damped that flame. She took a scientific view of infant nutrition, all calorie values and protein metabolism with not so much as a mashed banana to bring it down to earth. I listened until I heard her say that ‘the coagulation of human milk in gastric juice is much more loose and flocculent than that of cows’ milk and therefore…’ and then I tried very hard not to hear any more. Clearly, Sister MacAllister was going to furnish me neither with recipes to take home to my nursery nor with a template for a successful talk on the Household Budget in a month’s time, and I felt that anyone who used the words ‘gastric’ and ‘flocculent’ (whatever it meant) in the same sentence and straight after tea did not deserve my attention. I peeped at Miss Lindsay just to check that she was not about to faint and then closed my ears and tried to think about the case.

That there were thirty-odd women here tonight in spite of everything was a sign, I thought, that no one really believed the tales. Only of Vashti and Nicolette could I think the prospect of being mauled by a dark stranger might be an enticement to come along; they were possibly young enough to have caught the current fashion for greeting almost anything in life as a ‘scream’. One heard oftener and oftener that a friend of a friend had been arrested, drunk in charge of a motor car or swimming in a public pond, and always there came with the story an unspoken demand for one to find the whole thing a ‘scream’; my inability to do so made me feel elderly sometimes.

The other women of the Luckenlaw Rural would certainly take a very different view, I was sure. If any of their number actually encountered the stranger, she would scream holy murder, retell the tale with sundry embellishments at every opportunity for months and pester the doctor for tablets and tonics to help with her nerves for the rest of her life. In short, she would turn a nasty moment into something Wagnerian and utterly without end. I could safely assume, then, that none of them really believed in a dark stranger, out there right now waiting to catch them.

So, perhaps the task before me was the equally ticklish one of trying to find out who had started the story and why and why she had been joined by others backing it up. But who to ask? I had not been introduced to any of the women and none of the names I heard in passing had chimed with those on Mr Tait’s list; neither Miss McCallum, Miss Lindsay nor Mrs Hemingborough had reported an encounter with the stranger. I let my gaze drift around the room, wondering which of these women it was who had. They all looked so very stolid sitting there, some nodding in the warmth as Sister MacAllister’s lullaby washed over them, some grimly upright, some gaping with boredom. Nicolette and Vashti were sprawled in their seats like delinquent schoolgirls, making no effort at all to hide their feelings as the voice droned on and on, and looking at them I found my own legs begin to twitch as they had not done since the days of German dictation, so that I longed to slide from my seat and roll about on the floor. I caught the eye of a young woman sitting beside Vashti and looked quickly away. The next face I noticed was looking at me too and as I darted glances all around the room I began to perceive that all eyes were upon me and that Sister MacAllister was in her seat, shuffling her papers and with a look of satisfaction at a good job well done shining upon her face.

‘Mrs Gilver?’ said Miss McCallum, and her tone told me it was not the first time she had said it.

‘Ah yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch the last thing you said, I’m afraid. Stupidly, I didn’t bring a notebook and I was, um, trying to commit Sister MacAllister’s vitamin list to memory while it was still fresh in my mind.’ A tremendous snort from the corner convinced me that one of the Howie ladies at least had seen through me, but Miss McCallum only beamed.

‘I was saying it’s time for our social half-hour. What would you like to propose? Songs around the piano, perhaps?’

Nothing would have persuaded me to plump for songs around the piano in the present company; I should have given no odds at all that the Luckenlaw women knew a great many woeful ballads all with twelve verses and I should not put it past the Howies to dredge up something from a revue just out of sheer mischief. General chat would be ideal if it could go on long enough to let me get around the room and give me time to work the conversation up to the point each time, but half an hour was pitifully short for that. Only one sensible possibility presented itself to me.

‘I’d like stories,’ I said. ‘Good old-fashioned stories. What could be more fun?’

There were a few groans from the younger girls but most of their elders were clearly equal to the challenge.

‘And on what topic?’ said Miss McCallum.

‘It can be anything at all?’ I asked.

‘Except party politics and sectarian religion,’ chorused Nicolette and Vashti as though they had said it many times before. There was a slight embarrassed titter.

‘Well, yes,’ said Miss Lindsay, ‘although I’m sure Mrs Gilver would not have dreamed of that.’

Actually, Mrs Gilver had dreamed of something much worse. My heart was knocking at the thought of my temerity, but it was irresistible.

‘Since it’s almost Hallowe’en,’ I said, ‘let’s have ghost stories. We must all tell a story – a true story, mind – that begins “One dark night, I was all alone and… ”.’

There was a blank silence and a few of the polite smiles around the room began to falter.

‘When I was a girl we always used to love to tell ghost stories,’ I said. ‘Just for fun, you understand.’

‘Aye well,’ said a voice, calmly. I did not look to see who it was who spoke. ‘That’s down there for you.’

As though things were not bad enough, in the silence which followed this leaden pronouncement, a girl who had been coughing quietly throughout the evening and had blown her nose repeatedly, suddenly let out an explosive sneeze and instead of the usual bless you, her neighbour said loud and clear: ‘Sneeze on a Monday.’ She bit it off short, but everyone in the room carried on in thought: kiss a stranger.

‘Or poems,’ I said, trying very hard not to sound frantic. ‘Everyone must know a poem.’

And so it came to pass that I let myself in for listening politely to half an hour’s worth of the most torrid Scotch poems imaginable: drowned maidens, duelling swains, doomed soldiers and even, I was irritated to note, a fair sprinkling of ghosts.