The Road to Rowanbrae by Doris Davidson Page B

but will Jeems let you?’
    â€˜I’ll tell him he’ll need to look after the bairns, an’ he’ll ha’e to like it or lump it.’
    â€˜You could easy tak’ the bairns wi’ you, there’s aye a puckle runnin’ aboot through folks’s feet.’
    â€˜I dinna want to tak’ the bairns wi’ me,’ Mysie said, her face clouding, ‘but I will if Jeems’ll nae look after them.’
    â€˜I wish I could see his face when you tell him,’ Jess grinned. ‘But stand back, for if he doesna hit the roof, he’ll sure as hell hit you.’
    That night, as soon as Jamie and Sandy were in bed, Mysie blurted out, ‘I’m goin’ to Fingask’s meal an’ ale wi’ Jess.’
    Her husband’s eyes almost disappeared under his brows. ‘I’ve tell’t ye afore, you’re nae goin’ to nae meal an’ ales.’
    Her inside churning, Mysie said, ‘It’s nae use arguin’, I’m goin’, an’ that’s a’ aboot it. You can bide wi’ the loons.’
    â€˜Ha’e you gone clean daft, wumman? What’ll folk think?’
    â€˜They’ll be pleased you’re lettin’ your wife aff the chain for once, an’ it’s nae use hittin’ me, for a’body’ll see the bruises, an’ what’s mair, I’m nae stoppin’ you comin’ wi’ me.’
    He let his raised fists drop. ‘What if I tied you to the bed and didna let you oot?’
    â€˜I wouldna put it past you, but I’d tell Jean Petrie on Sunday an’ she’d let a’body ken.’
    â€˜Aye, she’d dae that, a’ right.’ Jeems fell silent, weighing up which would be the lesser of the two evils, then said, ‘I’ll ha’e to let you go, I suppose?’
    â€˜Aye.’ Triumph shot through her at how easy it had been.
    Mysie washed and ironed her Sunday blouse and skirt the next day, and checked that there were no holes in her stockings, for even if nobody would see them if there were any, she’d know they were there. She would have liked to have something new to wear, but there was no money for that, and Jess had told her that only the farmer’s wife ever wore any finery.
    Jeems watched but said nothing as Mysie prepared to go out on Saturday night, but when she was ready – her dark hair, shining and luxuriant, swept up in a loose knot on top of her head instead of dragged back into its usual plain bun at her neck, her blue eyes sparkling, her cheeks pink with excitement – he couldn’t help feeling proud of her beauty. Not being the kind of man who could easily express his feelings, he merely stroked his big nose and gave a grunt. ‘That’s you ready, is it? I suppose you’ll be for aff?’
    â€˜Aye,’ she replied, not in the least cast down because he had passed no favourable comment on her appearance. Excitement coursed through her as she walked along the road between the Findlaters. ‘Robertson o’ Waterton never has a meal an’ ale o’ his ain,’ Jess remarked, ‘so maist o’ his men’ll be at Fingask the nicht, as weel.’
    â€˜The mair the merrier, eh, Mysie?’ Jake nudged her.
    When they arrived, there seemed to be hundreds of people in the huge barn, dancing in wild abandon – even Jean Petrie had her skirts kilted up and was hooching and kicking her legs in the air. Her husband, Eck the grieve, was rattling up his old accordion, unaware of her antics, or perhaps fully aware of them but glad that she wasn’t miscalling their neighbours, as she was in the habit of doing at other times.
    Half an hour later, disappointed that no one had asked her for the eightsome reel, Mysie spotted Andra White whirling Jess round, both screaming with laughter. Jake was standing at the improvised bar, drinking with the other men who were not up dancing, and looking as if