‘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.
4
Lorna, the soul of diplomacy, would never have mentioned my faux pas, but as we made our way back up the lane to the green the Howies’ motor car slowed beside us and Vashti stuck her head out of the window and hailed me.
‘Such a hoot, your ghost story idea,’ she said. ‘Just the breath of fresh air this place needs. In fact, if you’re staying overnight at the manse, do come round in the morning. You too of course, Lorna darling.’ She withdrew her head as Nicolette ‘revved’ the engine and they roared off, leaving Lorna and me in awkward silence.
‘I must apologise,’ I said at last. ‘One forgets, even after all these years, what might cause offence up here in Calvin’s stamping ground.’ I remembered, too late, that Lorna’s father was a minister of the very church that was Mr Calvin’s legacy. ‘Not that I’ve anything against . . .’ but I could not continue. How could one not have at least something against some of it?
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ said Lorna. ‘Gosh, no. Luckenlaw is just as in thrall to a good spooky story as anywhere. You’ll have heard about the locked chamber?’
‘A little,’ I admitted.
‘Well, you wouldn’t believe the superstitious stories about it. Except that it’s rather mean to call it superstition, my father always says. Folklore, he says, is just history without the books. Or is it history that’s just folklore written down? Well, anyway,’ she concluded and in the cold glare of the moonlight I could see her beaming smile.
The women had come up the lane in a clump but were now splitting into small groups and pairs and setting off in their various directions, up to the green, down the lane to the road, through gates into the fields. No one seemed to be striking out alone, as I was relieved to see since I had not managed to attach myself to a likely victim, and no one seemed exactly what one would call anxious. There were no high spirits to be sure, but the cold air and the prospect of a long walk home might have been enough to account for that and I suspected too that the drawing to a close of this interval of camaraderie and a resumption of duties towards husband and home might be responsible for the downward droop of some of the shoulders and for the hefty sighs I heard being heaved on all sides.
Mrs Hemingborough, lugging her basket and accompanied by a young woman in a rather threadbare coat, walked with Lorna and me as far as the manse gate and carried on.
‘Have they far to go?’ I asked Lorna, gesturing after the pair. ‘I could always get my motor car.’
‘Oh no,’ said Lorna. ‘Only a step. Mrs Hemingborough is at Hinter Luckenlaw Farm and Jessie – she’s married to their cowman – has a cottage on the way.’
I was satisfied. Young Jessie was safe and the doughty Mrs Hemingborough with her strong hands was as likely to come off best in a tussle with the stranger as she was un likely to be the object of his peculiar affections.
Anyone who has followed my short career, or indeed spent an afternoon with me I am afraid, will not be surprised to learn what happened next. Mr Tait and I were sitting before the fire minutes later, sipping our cocoa and already beginning to think of bed – Lorna had disappeared into the kitchen quarters with an apology and a muttered word about the next day’s menu – when we heard a hammering at the front door. Mr Tait put down his cup and rose to his feet and I was just thinking that he was taking this late-night rumpus suspiciously
‘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.
4
Lorna, the soul of diplomacy, would never have mentioned my faux pas, but as we made our way back up the lane to the green the Howies’ motor car slowed beside us and Vashti stuck her head out of the window and hailed me.
‘Such a hoot, your ghost story idea,’ she said. ‘Just the breath of fresh air this place needs. In fact, if you’re staying overnight at the manse, do come round in the morning. You too of course, Lorna darling.’ She withdrew her head as Nicolette ‘revved’ the engine and they roared off, leaving Lorna and me in awkward silence.
‘I must apologise,’ I said at last. ‘One forgets, even after all these years, what might cause offence up here in Calvin’s stamping ground.’ I remembered, too late, that Lorna’s father was a minister of the very church that was Mr Calvin’s legacy. ‘Not that I’ve anything against . . .’ but I could not continue. How could one not have at least something against some of it?
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ said Lorna. ‘Gosh, no. Luckenlaw is just as in thrall to a good spooky story as anywhere. You’ll have heard about the locked chamber?’
‘A little,’ I admitted.
‘Well, you wouldn’t believe the superstitious stories about it. Except that it’s rather mean to call it superstition, my father always says. Folklore, he says, is just history without the books. Or is it history that’s just folklore written down? Well, anyway,’ she concluded and in the cold glare of the moonlight I could see her beaming smile.
The women had come up the lane in a clump but were now splitting into small groups and pairs and setting off in their various directions, up to the green, down the lane to the road, through gates into the fields. No one seemed to be striking out alone, as I was relieved to see since I had not managed to attach myself to a likely victim, and no one seemed exactly what one would call anxious. There were no high spirits to be sure, but the cold air and the prospect of a long walk home might have been enough to account for that and I suspected too that the drawing to a close of this interval of camaraderie and a resumption of duties towards husband and home might be responsible for the downward droop of some of the shoulders and for the hefty sighs I heard being heaved on all sides.
Mrs Hemingborough, lugging her basket and accompanied by a young woman in a rather threadbare coat, walked with Lorna and me as far as the manse gate and carried on.
‘Have they far to go?’ I asked Lorna, gesturing after the pair. ‘I could always get my motor car.’
‘Oh no,’ said Lorna. ‘Only a step. Mrs Hemingborough is at Hinter Luckenlaw Farm and Jessie – she’s married to their cowman – has a cottage on the way.’
I was satisfied. Young Jessie was safe and the doughty Mrs Hemingborough with her strong hands was as likely to come off best in a tussle with the stranger as she was un likely to be the object of his peculiar affections.
Anyone who has followed my short career, or indeed spent an afternoon with me I am afraid, will not be surprised to learn what happened next. Mr Tait and I were sitting before the fire minutes later, sipping our cocoa and already beginning to think of bed – Lorna had disappeared into the kitchen quarters with an apology and a muttered word about the next day’s menu – when we heard a hammering at the front door. Mr Tait put down his cup and rose to his feet and I was just thinking that he was taking this late-night rumpus suspiciously
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