A Time to Reap Read online

  A Time to Reap

  Kate Blackadder

  Copyright © 2017 Kate Blackadder

  The right of Kate Blackadder to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the prior permission in writing from

  Kate Blackadder.

  This story is a work of fiction.

  Cover design by Mark Blackadder.

  A Time to Reap was first published in serial form in

  The People’s Friend 2016.

  It is also available in large-print from libraries.

  Dedicated to Ian and Muriel,

  my mum and dad

  Cast of Characters

  Elizabeth Duncan, farm manager, Rosland Home Farm

  Libby and Flora, her small daughters

  Tibbie, her mother-in-law

  Chris, her sister

  Mamie and Neil, her mother and father

  Peggy Mackay, Elizabeth’s cousin

  Alec, her husband

  Colin and Davy, her sons

  Hugh Mackay, Alec’s American nephew

  Donna, Hugh’s wife

  Lady Annabel Mannering, owner of the Rosland Estate

  Rodney Shaw, estate factor

  Tam Morrison, estate dairyman

  June, Tam’s wife

  Frank Robertson, estate forester

  Isa Robertson, Frank’s mother

  Andy Kerr, local vet

  Bill Brock, American guest of Lady Annabel’s

  Struan Scott, locum doctor

  Nancy Douglas, village shop owner

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 1

  ‘Exactly how many lambs did you lose, Mrs Duncan?’ Rodney Shaw put his elbows on his desk and tapped his fingertips together as he glared at the farm manager through his horn-rimmed glasses.

  Elizabeth Duncan was used to the estate factor’s glare and to his barked questions and was no longer intimidated by them. She’d ignored his imperious gesture inviting her to sit down, and drew herself up to her full height – three inches taller than him even when they were both standing – and looked him in the eye as she answered.

  ‘Ten,’ she said. ‘We’ve been luckier than most. We were able to get the sheep off the hill in time and our fields are comparatively sheltered. But they’re saying it was the coldest winter for two hundred … ’

  ‘I’m aware of that, of course. But luck shouldn’t have anything to do with it.’

  ‘Down south hundreds have died because the lambing is a couple of months earlier than ours.’ Elizabeth kept her voice calm. ‘Of course I wish we hadn’t lost any but it was unavoidable.’ She shuddered as she remembered the worst morning when she found six sad little bodies, frozen beside their puzzled mothers, after a night when the temperature plunged to -15.

  ‘If you say so.’ Rodney Shaw’s tone implied that Elizabeth, and Elizabeth alone, was responsible for the icy weather that had brought the whole country to a virtual standstill for almost three months. He gestured at the piece of paper she held. ‘Is that the final costs for the feed?’

  Elizabeth handed it to him.

  The factor glanced at it and shook his head. ‘Feed merchant taking advantage of the situation, it would seem. I don’t know what Lady Annabel’s going to say.’ He waved his hand again, this time indicating that he was finished with her.

  Elizabeth marched back to her own small office. Lady Annabel will have the sense to realise that there was no option but to buy extra feed when the hills were under feet of snow, she fumed. The feed merchant had a hard job keeping up with demand. He could have charged twice as much, we were all so desperate, but he didn’t.

  The snow might have disappeared from the ground, if not from the hills, but the cubbyhole at the back of the estate office building was freezing. Elizabeth lit the paraffin heater, although she knew she wouldn’t be sitting down for long, poured herself a cup of tea from the flask Tibbie had filled for her and opened the packet of sandwiches.

  The farm diary for 1963 lay open on the desk. The first of April. She should be planning when to plant the potatoes this month but the ground was still so hard. To keep the farmhands busy today she’d set them to do some fencing repairs and tidy the barn.

  Tam, the new dairyman, had started this morning. He was due to come to the office in ten minutes and together they were going out to look at the herd.

  She hoped he and his wife and their new baby would settle in well at Rosland Home Farm. It was a small community and, mostly, a harmonious one. Unfortunately, Tam’s wife would likely find her next-door neighbour to be less than congenial.

  Tam seemed to be a good person to have around, respectful but not afraid to say what he thought, his honest blue eyes twinkling with humour. She’d taken his personality into account almost as much as his dairy experience when she offered him the job. Mr Shaw had wanted someone else but she hadn’t taken to the hard, unsmiling man at all. It was as if he’d been interviewing her rather than the other way round. In the tour of the dairy he’d snapped questions at her and pulled a face when she answered, evidently finding it hard to believe that a mere woman was the farm manager. Too much like Mr Shaw himself. Fortunately, Lady Annabel had made it clear that the final decision on the appointment of a new dairyman was to be Elizabeth’s.

  Tam’s wife hadn’t come to the interview – the journey up north from Ayrshire was tricky in the snowy weather. But Tam assured Elizabeth that she would be delighted with the semi-detached cottage that would be their new home.

  Elizabeth finished her ham sandwich, folded up the brown paper bag and put it in the drawer, hoping she’d remember to take it home at the end of the day. Tibbie put on a martyred air if she forgot and much of Elizabeth’s energy went into trying to keep on her mother-in-law’s good side.

  Inside the drawer was a photograph of Matthew taken on their wedding day. He never looked quite comfortable in a suit – a check shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his old corduroys were more his style. Why was it that pictures only seemed to be taken on formal occasions? She didn’t have a picture of him at work, except in her head, and she was beginning to be afraid that that picture was fading.

  She used to look at the picture and ask his advice all the time – not that she would tell anyone that, they would think she was mad. But when she took over his job after the accident, she would take him out of the drawer and quietly tell him whatever problem she was grappling with. More often than not the solution would come to her. Now that, unbelievably, two whole years had passed, she was consulting him less, confident in her own abilities to sort things out; but just knowing the picture was there gave her strength.

  What on earth was that sound from next door? Rodney Shaw laughing? Surely not. She got up and looked along the corridor to his room. Jimmie Bruce, one of the farmhands, was standing in the doorway to the factor’s office, twisting his cap in his hands and looking upset. He was a sweet-natured man who had never quite grown up, but he was strong as a horse, a hard worker, and a valued member of her staff.

  ‘Jimmie?’ She hurried over to him. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘M – M – Mrs Duncan … ’

  Before Jimmie could say anymore Rodney Shaw said: ‘Just my little joke, Mrs Duncan. I sent Bruce to
the shop for a tin of tartan paint but apparently they didn’t have any!’

  He came round his desk. ‘You can get back to work now, Bruce.’ He closed his door.

  ‘Never mind Mr Shaw, Jimmie.’ Elizabeth gripped the man’s arm for a moment. ‘He has a very warped sense of humour.’ She castigated herself for not remembering that this happened last year – then it was ‘a jar of elbow grease’ that Jimmie was supposed to pick up. She held out her watch to show him the time. ‘Look, it’s after midday. April Fool jokes don’t count now. Go and have your sandwiches. I’ll come and see you later.’

  It was unforgivable of the factor to make fun of poor Jimmie. Last year she’d tried to remonstrate with him about it but he brushed her off. And he’d undermined herself today too by taking the farmhand away from work she’d set him.

  Was that Tam coming in now? She took a deep breath to compose herself to greet him.

  ‘Tam. I hope you’ve enjoyed your first morning at Rosland.’ She turned off the heater and put on her jacket. ‘And I hope your wife – June, isn’t it? – is getting settled in. Moving house so soon after having a baby – if she needs any help, do ask. I’ll go down and see her later.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Duncan,’ Tam Morrison said cheerfully. ‘Sadie had us up before the birds this morning so we cracked on with getting unpacked.’

  ‘Good,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Right, let’s show you round.’

  June pinned the last nappy to the line. She picked up the laundry basket and looked up at the sky. It was so clear and blue and the air was definitely warmer. Spring was here at long last.

  This was such a beautiful place. On Sunday afternoon they’d pushed the pram around the estate, with its hedged fields, and woods with the trees just coming into bud. Tam had pointed out Mrs Duncan’s house, and the lodge at the end of the drive where Mr Shaw lived. They’d peered through the gates of Rosland House, a grand Victorian building. It was empty most of the year which didn’t seem right, but Tam said that the estate owner, Lady Annabel, lived most of the time somewhere in England.

  She turned her gaze, with joy, on the pram by the back door. After five long years they had a baby. It was a miracle – well, a miracle for Tam and herself of course, not for Rita. She could never forget Sadie’s birth mother even though she desperately wanted to. Circled on the calendar and engraved on her heart was the date 17 June. On that day, she hoped and prayed, Sadie would really and truly be their very own daughter.

  There was another black cloud on her happiness but this lovely morning she was not going to let her new neighbour get her down.

  She hadn’t ventured far on her own yet so today, she decided, she was going to walk the mile to the village post office to buy stamps. She’d written a long letter to her mother. Next time, she hoped, she’d be able to enclose a photograph. Tam had taken a whole roll but they hadn’t managed to get into town to get them developed.

  Nancy Douglas looked up as the bell jangled and a woman came in backwards pulling a pram. She dashed round the counter to help with the door. Luckily there were no other customers or it would be rather a squash. The pram would have been quite safe outside but – she peered into it – this was a very new baby, and first-time mothers could be overly protective.

  ‘How are you liking Rosland, Mrs Morrison?’ she asked, enjoying the look of surprise on the newcomer’s face at the use of her name.

  ‘I’m liking it fine,’ she said. ‘How do you … ?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult. I’m Nancy. I’ve been working in this post office for almost forty years. There’s not much gets past me.’

  June held out her hand. ‘Nancy, nice to meet you. I’m June. And this is Sadie.’ She stroked the little hand lying on the knitted blanket.

  ‘A redhead by the look of it.’ Nancy glanced at June’s dark curls.

  ‘There’s red hair on my husband’s side of the family,’ June said, almost defensively. ‘I’d like six threepenny stamps, please.’ She looked around with interest. The post office took up a corner of the shop that was otherwise crammed with tins and packets and all manner of household items. ‘Is this where the grocery van comes from?’

  ‘Yes, it goes round all the farms and outlying areas,’ said Nancy. ‘Tuesday is Rosland day. Elizabeth will have told you about it. Mrs Duncan,’ she added, seeing the question in June’s eyes.

  ‘She’s very nice, Mrs Duncan, isn’t she,’ June said, sitting down on the chair Nancy kept by the counter to encourage folk to stay and chat. ‘She put some food in the larder and had the fire lit for us when we arrived. It was a cheery sight. But I’ve never heard of a woman being a farm manager before.’

  ‘And a good job she’s making of it. I’ve known Elizabeth all her life.’ Nancy took the money for the stamps and held out her hand for June’s letter. ‘I’ll put it in the bag for you.’ She dropped it into the sack behind the counter, glancing quickly at the address first. Paisley. Not that she was being nosy. Just gathering information.

  She perched on her own chair and leaned forward on her elbows. ‘Yes, I mind Elizabeth when she was a wee thing tramping around in her Wellington boots after her dad – he was a shepherd up Helmsdale way. And then in the war, when the Land Girls were here, that was it. She knew girls could be farmers too.’

  ‘And what happened to … ’ June stopped.

  Nancy beamed at her. It was natural to want to know about Elizabeth’s situation, which was an unusual one, but she liked it that June had some delicacy in the asking.

  Then she stopped smiling as she said: ‘It was terrible, terrible. Two years ago. Matthew was on his horse on the road between here and the farm. Something caused the horse to shy and he was thrown off. The doctor came quick as he could but it was too late. And there was Elizabeth left with the wee ones.’

  ‘Two girls? I’ve seen them playing around the farmhouse.’

  ‘Libby and Flora. Well, Elizabeth had been at the agricultural college too, that was where she met Matthew, so she was well up on it all and she begged Lady Annabel to give her a chance and let her have Matthew’s job. Mr Rodney Shaw was none too pleased about it – he had a pal all lined up, but she’s a very sensible woman, Lady Annabel. She could see what Elizabeth was like.’

  ‘But how does she manage, with the children?’ June was frankly curious now.

  ‘Tibbie, Matthew’s mother, moved in with her. She lost her own man in the war and Matthew was her one and only.’

  June raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m awful fond of Tam’s mum,’ she laughed, ‘but I don’t think we’d get on in the same house.’

  ‘Tibbie’s not an easy woman to live with but her heart’s in the right place.’ Nancy put the big book of stamps in the drawer and looked June straight in the eye. ‘And what has Isa been telling you about us all?’ If Nancy knew June’s next-door neighbour it would be plenty.

  ‘Oh, she … ’ June fumbled for words.

  ‘Let me guess.’ Nancy counted them off on her fingers. ‘One. Nancy Douglas in the post office is an old besom who can’t mind her own business. Two. She knows – did she tap the side of her nose when she said this? – who Matthew Duncan visited the afternoon he died. Three. Elizabeth’s sister is no better than she should be. Four. Frank, her own blue-eyed boy, is being unfairly threatened with dismissal by the factor. And I’m sure that wasn’t the half of it.’

  Nancy could tell by June’s scarlet face that she was spot-on. ‘As to the first allegation you can make up your own mind!’ she said. ‘The next two are pure Isa poison. And the last one – well, I’m no admirer of Mr Shaw but there’s nothing unfair about it. Everyone knows Frank Robertson skives off work and stravaigs about the countryside breaking hearts. It’s a wonder he’s lasted this long in the job.’

  June’s mouth was hanging open. ‘What does Frank do – he doesn’t work on the farm?’

  ‘He’s the forester, like his father before him.’ Nancy leaned forward and patted June’s hand. ‘The best thing, dear, since you can’t avoid Isa, is
not to believe a word she says and don’t tell her anything about yourself.’ There was a clatter outside as a woman with windblown brown hair leant a bicycle against the wall. ‘Oh, here’s Peggy. I’ll introduce you. She’s a cousin of Elizabeth’s. You’ll soon get to know everybody!’

  June put the stamps in her purse. ‘I’m sure I will,’ she said, looking rather dazed.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ Mamie knelt down, holding out her arms, and Flora ran into them.

  Tibbie had tied Flora’s hair in such tight little pigtails that they corkscrewed out rather comically behind her ears. Over her smocked dress she wore a sludgy-green cardigan, beautifully knitted in a complicated pattern. Mamie recognised the wool. Tibbie must have unravelled a jumper of her own to make it – it was a very grown-up colour for a wee girl.

  Mamie stood up, lifting her granddaughter with her. ‘Neil wanted to visit one of his cronies in the village so I thought I’d come with him and catch up on the news from you all,’ she said to Tibbie. ‘Here, let me help.’

  She sat down on the chair on the other side of the fireplace, with Flora on her knee, and reached for a sock to darn. With a smile Tibbie handed her a ball of wool and a large needle.

  ‘I’ll need to knit Elizabeth another pair,’ she said. ‘This one’s more darns than sock.’

  ‘Where’s Libby?’ Mamie leaned to one side so that she didn’t have the needle anywhere near Flora’s face.

  Tibbie’s lips tightened. ‘I sent her up to her bed for an hour. Answered me back, the little madam, when I asked her to finish her dinner.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mamie in dismay. ‘I’m sure she never meant to be rude.’

  ‘It was a good plate of Irish stew. I’ve never known such a faddy child.’ Tibbie’s darning needle went in and out determinedly.

  Mamie felt sure she wouldn’t have been able to finish the stew either. Tibbie’s knitting and sewing skills were second-to-none. Her cooking skills were not. No doubt the Irish stew would have had meat that was hard to chew and a layer of grease on top.