first, but John’s set on us getting married next time he’s home.’
The two younger girls exchanged glances, and Elspeth could tell that they didn’t believe a word of what she was saying. She was tempted to tell them what had happened the day before, but it was too sweet, and too dangerous, to make public. ‘It’s true! He did ask me, honest he did.’
When they still looked sceptical, she started refilling the spool of her machine. ‘Just wait, then you’ll see.’
Miss Fraser’s return put a stop to any further discussion on the subject, but Elspeth didn’t really care what the other two girls thought. They would have to believe her on Monday, for it would be all cut and dried by then.
She rushed home after the shop closed and insisted on laying the table. Taking out the best damask cloth, used only on very special occasions – the last had been her paternal grandmother’s funeral six months previously – she smoothed it out then set four places with the equally rarely used willow pattern dinner service and silver cutlery. Lizzie, stirring a small pan at the side of the fire, sniffed but said nothing.
Geordie came in at half past six, stamping his feet to get his circulation going again, then went over to the fire to take off his boots. It was his custom to sit all evening in his thick wheeling wool socks, matted and discoloured on the soles, but Elspeth said, tentatively, ‘Could you please leave your boots on, Father, seeing there’ll be company?’
‘As though I didna ken.’ But he sat back with his boots still on his feet. ‘Fine company indeed – the great John Forrest himself. I’ll need to wash my face as well, I suppose.’
When everything was ready, Elspeth sat down nervously on a high chair and fidgeted so much that Lizzie said, ‘Settle yourself, Eppie. He’ll not come any quicker for you hodging about like that. What time did you tell him?’
‘Seven o’clock.’
‘Well, it wants fifteen minutes yet. Have patience.’
The big black kettle spat out suddenly, and the girl jumped up to unhook it from the swey. She laid it on the hob at the side and settled back in her seat, looking at the clock as its steady tick measured out the silence, although she had grown up loving this majestic member of the family and knew every beautiful inch of it. The wheatsheaf painted at the top of the face meant that the house would never be short of food, her mother had once told her, and the dial itself was marked out in black Roman numerals. Inside their circumference were two smaller circles, the top one showing the seconds passing, and the bottom one giving the date of the month. When she was a child, Elspeth had always been allowed to push that tiny hand forward to the correct date if there had been a month with less than thirty-one days.
A small smile crossed her face as she recalled how she used to climb up on a chair when she was a little girl, to peep through the glass panel at the side of the clock. She had watched with awe as the little toothed wheels and cogs clicked round, and marvelled, even now, at the intricate machinery which kept her ‘grandfather’ alive. Her father made a ritual of the winding, taking the crank-shaped key from behind the ornamental scrolls on top of the long case and inserting it first into the hole at the left side of the dial. He turned it slowly until the weight controlling the chiming mechanism was cranked to the top, then transferred it to the right-hand hole and the second weight rose. Thus the working of all the hands was ensured for the next seven days.
Elspeth’s eyes shifted now to the small pillars, one at each side of the face, which shone from many years of polishing – her mother used only the best beeswax polish on the clock – and reflected the brass feet on which they stood. The mahogany case itself glowed a deep red in the light from the fire and the Tilley lamp.
Eight minutes still to wait. She rose and went over to the dresser, which
The two younger girls exchanged glances, and Elspeth could tell that they didn’t believe a word of what she was saying. She was tempted to tell them what had happened the day before, but it was too sweet, and too dangerous, to make public. ‘It’s true! He did ask me, honest he did.’
When they still looked sceptical, she started refilling the spool of her machine. ‘Just wait, then you’ll see.’
Miss Fraser’s return put a stop to any further discussion on the subject, but Elspeth didn’t really care what the other two girls thought. They would have to believe her on Monday, for it would be all cut and dried by then.
She rushed home after the shop closed and insisted on laying the table. Taking out the best damask cloth, used only on very special occasions – the last had been her paternal grandmother’s funeral six months previously – she smoothed it out then set four places with the equally rarely used willow pattern dinner service and silver cutlery. Lizzie, stirring a small pan at the side of the fire, sniffed but said nothing.
Geordie came in at half past six, stamping his feet to get his circulation going again, then went over to the fire to take off his boots. It was his custom to sit all evening in his thick wheeling wool socks, matted and discoloured on the soles, but Elspeth said, tentatively, ‘Could you please leave your boots on, Father, seeing there’ll be company?’
‘As though I didna ken.’ But he sat back with his boots still on his feet. ‘Fine company indeed – the great John Forrest himself. I’ll need to wash my face as well, I suppose.’
When everything was ready, Elspeth sat down nervously on a high chair and fidgeted so much that Lizzie said, ‘Settle yourself, Eppie. He’ll not come any quicker for you hodging about like that. What time did you tell him?’
‘Seven o’clock.’
‘Well, it wants fifteen minutes yet. Have patience.’
The big black kettle spat out suddenly, and the girl jumped up to unhook it from the swey. She laid it on the hob at the side and settled back in her seat, looking at the clock as its steady tick measured out the silence, although she had grown up loving this majestic member of the family and knew every beautiful inch of it. The wheatsheaf painted at the top of the face meant that the house would never be short of food, her mother had once told her, and the dial itself was marked out in black Roman numerals. Inside their circumference were two smaller circles, the top one showing the seconds passing, and the bottom one giving the date of the month. When she was a child, Elspeth had always been allowed to push that tiny hand forward to the correct date if there had been a month with less than thirty-one days.
A small smile crossed her face as she recalled how she used to climb up on a chair when she was a little girl, to peep through the glass panel at the side of the clock. She had watched with awe as the little toothed wheels and cogs clicked round, and marvelled, even now, at the intricate machinery which kept her ‘grandfather’ alive. Her father made a ritual of the winding, taking the crank-shaped key from behind the ornamental scrolls on top of the long case and inserting it first into the hole at the left side of the dial. He turned it slowly until the weight controlling the chiming mechanism was cranked to the top, then transferred it to the right-hand hole and the second weight rose. Thus the working of all the hands was ensured for the next seven days.
Elspeth’s eyes shifted now to the small pillars, one at each side of the face, which shone from many years of polishing – her mother used only the best beeswax polish on the clock – and reflected the brass feet on which they stood. The mahogany case itself glowed a deep red in the light from the fire and the Tilley lamp.
Eight minutes still to wait. She rose and went over to the dresser, which
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