Knowing Your Place

Knowing Your Place

WARNING - This story contains Scottish dialect!

Walter Gourlay became the orra loon at Logiewell when he left Aberlour
Orphanage at the age of fifteen. Orra loon is farming speak for extra
hand or spare lad, the belittling label staying with the recipient into
old age. The robust, handsome, introvert lad was taken to the farm in
the warden's black Buick, his first experience of motorised transport,
fed jam sandwiches by Ella Kirk, the farmer's wife, then shown his
bothy - a shed between byre and the stable, next to Glen's
kennel.

After a month he bought a bike to travel the forty-mile round trip to
the home on Sundays. But soon friends of his age group were despatched
to more distant destinations. Watty knew he had to resign himself to
the drudgery of Logiewell, which entailed blind obedience to his
devoutly religious, tyrannical master, as well as moody Alistair, his
wayward son. Nevertheless, by the age of twenty-three, he had visited
Aberdeen and also North Africa -although soldiers in World War Two
missed out on the scenery.

The Kirks had farmed Logiewell, with its stones and uneven, marshy
ground, for generations. Robert senior had returned from the First
World War nursing a severe facial injury, acquired, some said, not in
the trenches, but accidentally, on manoeuvres at Salisbury Plain. The
wound healed badly, leaving his mouth permanently distorted, in a
lopsided grin that belied, or maybe caused, his habitual dourness.
Barring weekly services at nearby Edenkillie Church, he and Ella lived
reclusively on their four-horse smallholding. Traditionally, their
first son was named after his father, then five years elapsed before
Alistair was born, with their daughter Jean arriving a year later. They
hired Walter as a replacement for young Robert, when he joined the
Royal Air Force, just after the war started. Alistair was thrown out of
agricultural college for misbehaviour.

The father tended to compare his enlisted son's abilities with hapless
Walter's ineptitude. He imposed a strict discipline on the young
orphan, peppered with biblical quotes and paternal counsel. The youth,
who had never known his parents, accepted all of it in good grace,
thankful for the crumbs of comfort dispensed by Ella, in the form of
patronising praise and extra helpings of mince and tatties. Then Robert
junior was reported missing, shot down over the English Channel, and
the old man retreated even deeper into depression. Alistair assumed
more control of everyday affairs than his age and unstable disposition
justified.

For two years Watty tolerated Alistair's hurtful 'orphan' remarks,
knowing that the father was a man of principle. His high standards were
cruelly illustrated in an anecdote conveyed to him by the blacksmith,
soon after his arrival. The farmer had been called to Forres by his
son's headmaster, where he was told of a serious charge of a sexual
nature levelled at Alistair by the parents of a female pupil. The case
went to court and Alistair got twelve strokes of the birch, which
compared favourably with the hiding his shamed father gave him.

The two seventeen-year-olds were carting turnips home in the rain, both
weary from their labours and Crabby, the old grey mare, was struggling
to pull the cart along the winding muddy track. Walter jumped off to
lighten the load, but Alistair yanked on the reins, guiding the horse
on to a steep banking used as a shortcut by the cattle at milking
time.

"Dinna be daft Ally," shouted Walter, "she'll never make it!"

"She'll bloody have tae! I'm soaked to the skin." He raised the whip,
stinging the big Clydesdale's wet rump.

The panic-stricken beast scampered up the incline, but when the weight
of the laden cart pulled against her, she collapsed in a heap between
the shafts, panting like a labouring steam engine. Walter advanced
towards the stricken beast, penknife in hand.

"Aye, she was gettin' past it, anyway," said his companion. "better
put 'er oot o' her misery."

As Walter sliced the harness securing the shafts, the weight of the
load forced the unshackled cart to tip backwards, throwing the driver
to the ground amidst a heap of muddy turnips.

"My father'll kill you! D'ye ken how much that harness cost?"

"No, and the harness is maybe mair important to him than an orra loon,
but it's still cheaper than a horse."

Walter spent an anxious night in the bothy, but it was as if the
traumatic event had never happened. Crabbie's harness was replaced and
afterwards Alistair spoke to him only to discuss the day's work -
almost, it seemed, with a tone of respect.

-----ooooo-----

When Robert suffered his first heart attack, Jean left her boarding
school and came home to help her mother. Now sixteen, Walter had
scarcely noticed her development from gangling academy schoolgirl to
attractive young lady. When she came home between terms, she was always
confined to the farmhouse with the family - and Walter knew his
place.

Now skilled and strong, the farm servant followed war reports on his
wireless in the bothy he now shared with border collie Glen, but he
nurtured no grand illusions about serving king and country. Wasn't the
ailing king partly German? And what chance did an orra loon have of
owning a square inch of the country? All the same, there were times
when he felt drawn by a desire for adventure, maybe even heroics. Yet
the reality of battle scared him.

When he passed his medical for the Gordon Highlanders regiment, he
accepted his fate philosophically, celebrating his imminent departure
with his first visit to the Highland Games.

The carefree atmosphere shocked the serious young adult, his formative
years being devoid of social interaction. He wandered around in shy
confusion, eventually taking refuse in the beer tent.

"What are you doing here, Watty?"

Shocked surprise was followed by disbelief that anyone there should
know him. And who dared challenge his right to be wherever he wanted to
be? He blinked to gather his thoughts, staring blankly into the bright
blue eyes of his boss's daughter. "Nane o' your business, Jean, I've
the day off. I'm awa tae the Brig o' Don barracks on Monday, ye
ken."

She shifted her weight awkwardly from one too-tight court shoe to the
other, nearly tripping on the uneven grass surface. "No...no...I didna
mean tae be bossy. It was jist the shock o' seeing you sitting
there...in a suit!"

"Aye, well..."

"I jist wanted to see the games, Watty, that's a'. Mither's awa to
Elgin getting' the groceries. She'll be back aboot six." She blushed a
deep crimson, so she added "Whit are you blushin' for loon?"

Walter pointed to the bench. "Sit there and I'll buy drinks." He stuck
his chest out as he walked to the refreshment area. "I'm goin' tae be a
sodger," he confided to the barman, who allowed him a large whisky and
a pint of India Pale Ale.

The young man, about to spend three years at the beck and call of
corporals, sergeants and other ranks, felt a strange sense of freedom.
The alcohol dispelling inhibition, they were drawn towards the marquee
by the stirring country-dance music played by an accordion band. They
staggered around the temporary flooring, improvising a routine that
bore no relation to the Eightsome Reel - or even the Gay Gordons. Soon
Ella arrived to frogmarch the dishevelled pair from the tent. In the
back seat of the Austin Eight, Walter crooned bothy ballads he'd heard
on the wireless, while the farmer's wife lectured her errant daughter
about the evils of drink.

Walter lay awake in the lamplight, euphoria now replaced by guilt and
fear, yet it was no surprise when she came to him just after midnight.
Earlier she had been telling him of her lonely life at boarding school,
which resembled his own experiences in the orphanage. Her mother tried
to be affectionate, but her father domineered the family. They had
recognised a need in each other.

When the hinges creaked and Glen growled softly, he'd been lost in
thought. Then she was kneeling by his bed, pale now in the cool night
air, her beauty accentuated by the glow of the paraffin lamp. He
cradled her in his arms, his guilt shut out by a heady mixture of
longing and lust. But more fear of the unknown.

-----ooooo-----

News of Robert's second and fatal stroke reached Walter as he sailed
from Southampton. On the voyage he contemplated life at Logiewell with
Alistair in charge. He could always sign on again, he thought. As the
campaign raged on in North Africa and his platoon engaged the enemy at
close quarters, the scenes of mass slaughter in the unbearable heat
concentrated his mind only upon survival.

With no word from Jean since embarkation, he took to reading the small
volume of poems and songs by Robert Burns he'd bought from a stall in
Aberdeen's Market Street. The last four lines of a ballad held
significance for him, even in that bleak, desert wasteland -

There's no' a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's no' a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

When an infected shrapnel wound to the thigh curtailed his tour of
duty, Walter spent many months in army hospitals abroad and back in
Britain. Letters from Jean were assuring, but hints about Alistair's
drinking, his neglect of the farm and her mother's worsening TB,
suggested the welcome might be not be unanimous.

When he was discharged, just before VE Day, he went back to Logiewell,
the only home he had.

The aging collie ran out to greet him, warily. It wasn't just the daft
navy blue pinstripe, demob-issue suit that made Walter feel strange,
but the sight of the neglected whitewashed walls of the house and
stedding, with rusty, abandoned implements scattered around.

An unhealthy-looking Alistair opened the front door. "Well, well -
look what Glen brought back fae the midden!"

Jean came running, instinctively hugging the homecoming soldier,
before reverting to the casual, formal attitude she was brought up
with. "Aye, come awa in Watty. You've been sorely missed. Put your
suitcase doon by the door."

"So you're a hero noo, eh Watty?" said Alistair, as tea was being
poured. "Killed three Germans, I hear. Is it true?"

Walter stared at the carpet. "Where did you hear ..."

"Robertson fae the Hatton. His son Tam joined the Gordons, jist efter
you. Well, is it a fact?"

"Leave him be, Ally," said Jean hurriedly. "Think shame! Whit a thing
to ask onybody!" Then to Walter, hurriedly, "We've been short-handed
these past years. You'll be staying: at least for the harvest eh? I've
tidied the bothy. Mither'll be relieved to ken you're safe," she said,
with a meaningful glance at her brother, "my auntie in Nairn is lookin'
efter her. I visit every week."

In spite of Jean's ceaseless flow of conversation, Walter didn't doubt
who was the dominant sibling. Although he appreciated her intervention,
he knew Robert's death hadn't changed Alistair's attitude towards him.
But her eagerness for him to stay was more than matched by his own
desire to be close to her. And the bothy now boasted an electric
bedside lamp.

His physical wound would heal, but the scars on his soul would remain
forever.

A Fordson Major tractor had replaced the Clydesdales, with the stables
converted to garage it. Gone too was the herd of Aberdeen Angus beef
cattle, their show-winning rosettes still tacked to the wall. Only a
few of the Ayrshire milkers remained in an untidy byre, a symptom of
the malaise that pervaded the farm.

Harvesting of the corn and barley was already behind schedule, and
Walter had his own reasons for working most of the daylight hours to
catch up. First amongst these was the need for a proper,
nightmare-free, sleep. While Alistair sloped off to the Masons Arms, he
would spend time fine-tuning the tractor, the farm's only workhorse
now. He acquired spare parts and turned the garage into a workshop,
experiences of vehicles abandoned in the desert a constant reminder to
him of mechanical fallibility. Jean was equally busy, contending with
the cooking, visiting her mother, and even helping out in the fields
when she could. Alistair just kept on being Alistair, despite the
shortage of labour at the time, and provoking Walter was still his
favourite sport.

"Ye ken, Watty, I dinna believe you killed any Germans at a'. Ye widna
hae it in ye. Whit do you say Tam?" His second remark was to young Tom
Robertson, who'd come over for the day to help with the threshing. It
was traditional that neighbouring farmers would rally round on the
busiest day of the season. Jean had brought tea and homemade scones and
the tired workers were sitting by the last of the corn stacks for their
afternoon break.

Tom squirmed and toyed with the straw beneath him. "Aye, well, my
regiment never got as far as Africa - and I'm bloody glad they didna.
That's a' I'm saying."

"Aye, but ye ken Watty well enough. He couldna even put auld Crabbie
oot o' her misery when she was nearly gasping her last. C'mon Watty,
own up!"

Walter finished his tea and stood up, staring long and hard at his
employer. "I'm warning you noo, Ally - stick tae things that ye ken
aboot." He turned away to check the tension on drive belt between the
tractor and the threshing machine. "Even if that's nae very much," he
added.

She came to him in his bothy at dusk, the first time he'd seen Jean on
her own since he came back. Not that he had made any effort to persuade
her; there were things going on in his head that no-one could share,
least of all the girl he loved. They held each other close, then sat on
the bed.

"I came to tell you there's nae much money for your wages. We've been
in debt since we bought the tractor, but we'll be selling the grain
soon..."

"So you've come tae share my bed, eh Jean? That's fine wi' me. The
debt widna be because Ally's drinkin' a' the profits, would it?"

"It's nae funny Watty. And that stuff Ally kkeps askin' aboot Germans;
maybe you'd feel better tellin' me," she said gently. "Ye need tae get
it aff your conscience.."

"You jist widna believe whit happened oot there; there's nithing I can
compare it wi'." His eyes pleaded for understanding. "Maybe
sometime...but you've enough to worry aboot wi' your mither's illness
and your brither running the ferm into the grun."

"But Watty, you've been sae quiet since you came back. Can you nae be
strong, stand up to Alistair...?"

"No, I canna fight your battles lass. I'm still jist the orra loon in
the bothy an' that's a' I'll aye be to your femily. Aye, and tae think
this is whit I fought for, this is whit I ki..." He reached over and
pulled her close; she was sobbing now. "Oh, Jean, I'm sorry. Pay nae
heed. I dinna ken whit gets into me these days."

She shook him off and rushed out, dabbing her handkerchief to her
eyes.

Ella's funeral was at Edenkillie Church. Local farmers were there in
their dark Sunday suits, though they'd hardly known the inhibited
farmer's wife. Besides Alistair and Jean, the only close relative there
was Mary, Ella's more robust younger sister. When Walter tried to
express his condolences, she turned away, scooping up the little girl
she'd brought with her, as if the farm labourer might be harbouring a
disease.

Following the harvest, incessant rain added to the depressive mood at
Logiewell. Neglected drainage caused fields to flood, ploughing
becoming a hazardous chore. Walter was offered well-paid work with the
only agricultural engineer in the district, which he declined without
really knowing why. Jean was civil to him, but distant. If he wondered
whether she was avoiding him, with her almost daily visits to her aunt
in Nairn, he never mentioned it And his tormenter was testing his
patience with continued snide references to Walter's active
service.

Because of his dedication to work, and his boss's lack of that trait,
the orra loon was given a free hand.

"I'm takin' a plough share tae the smiddy," he told Alistair, late one
afternoon. "I'll nae be hame for supper. Tell Jean for me; I'll maybe
stop in by the Grouse Inn on the way back."

"Aye, okay loon, tak yer time. It'll dae yi' good."

In the relaxed atmosphere of the remote little public house, Walter was
sipping his fourth pint of heavy beer, grateful for the dulling effect
of the alcohol on his senses. Only the friendly tone of Alistair's
parting remark troubled him. Two drinks later, he bid the landlord
goodnight and strapped the piece of heavy steel to the handlebars of
the solid Raliegh Roadster, worrying about Jean, and convinced that his
devious employer had something in mind, other than his employee's
welfare.

The day-long blue sky cloudy now and darkness falling fast, he turned
off the main road, on to the beech-lined, pitted track that led to
Logiewell. His eyes accustomed to the gloom, he freewheeled the down
slope, carefully avoiding familiar potholes. Nearing the bend close to
the farmhouse, he looked up fleetingly. What he saw, just yards ahead,
made him lose all co-ordination, except for the instinct to brake. The
bike fell to the ground as he tugged on the straps securing the
ploughshare.

As the moon broke through the clouds, it lit up a white-shrouded
apparition, calling his name and uttering insulting phrases in a
strange German accent. His heartbeat raced as the ghost advanced slowly
towards him. He thought, momentarily, of the last, quite recent, time
he had experienced such terror, but the heavy, sharpened steel share
was in his grasp now, and his regimental motto was in his mind - Stand
Fast.

He judged his swing well, ensuring that the sharpened weapon made
contact with apex of the white target, as soon as it was within arms
reach. The pole-axed figure groaned only once, then twitched a few
times in the moonlight. Walter remounted his bike and cycled back to
the main road. There he gathered his thoughts, before turning towards
Forres and the police station.

He knew by the feel and sound of the blow that he had killed - again.
Then he saw in his mind, the bodies of three German soldiers, lying by
their retreating gun-carrier - axle-deep in sand. Three young men with
more to live for than he ever had. He screamed to his God for
understanding.

Jean didn't come to see him in prison, nor did she attend the trial. On
the stand, Walter's commanding officer described him as an exemplary
soldier, whose bravery in action accounted for the deaths of least
three enemy soldiers. The irony, in a murder trial, of being described
as a killer, didn't escape Walter, although it made him think long and
hard about that fateful night by the farm. Was his reaction simply
panic? Self-preservation? Or was he aware, even in that fleeting
moment, that the spectre was just his deranged employer dressed up in a
sheet? Did he wield the weapon in fear or anger, even hatred? The
charged was reduced to culpable homicide and he was sentenced to five
years.

It was a year later when she visited him in prison. She looked
distressed.

"I've something to tell you Watty."

He studied her face, seeking a clue to the betrayal. She was still
lithe and bonny, but her eyes no longer sparkled. "Oh aye? Took ye lang
enough, lass."

"I'm getting' merried...tae Tom Robertson fae the Hatton. I canna cope
wi' the ferm by mysel' and Tam's been a big help."

"Aye, and his father's nae short o' a bob or two either."

"I'm fond o' him..." She blushed.

"I'm sorry if ye think I deserted ye by getting' jailed," he said
eventually, "but it was Alistair doin,' nae mine."

She turned an walked to the exit, glancing round once. "I owed it tae
ye to tell ye tae yer face, that's a'."

He pursed his lips, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "I'm
thinkin' maybe you owe me a wee bit mair than that," he murmured, but
only to himself.

Suicide attempts delayed his integration, but after a while Walter
accepted the prison regime, making plans for a future upon his release.
It was much later that he came to accept his situation. Orphans, he
decided, had little or no chance of living a normal life. Without
parents, they were set loose with only a strict grounding in
Christianity to guide them, bible wisdom that was irrelevant in the
real world, and people who sought to employ kids from the home were
seldom inspired by selfless motives. Life in the army was more akin to
that in the home. With nowhere to turn in his loneliness, he penned a
letter to the warden.

He was amazed when he received four letters from former classmates,
answering each of them on the day they arrived. Three were from boys he
had known and liked, two of whom had gone to HMS Ganges as naval cadets
and the other now a corporal in the Black Watch. The other note was
from Margaret Neville. He remembered her well enough as a nice-looking,
shy girl, who embarrassed him regularly by leaving love letters in his
desk, during the third year. From the tone of her correspondence, it
was plain her feelings hadn't changed, not even asking an explanation
for his current dire circumstances.

As Margaret proved her commitment by visiting regularly, he became
aware that their affair went deeper than just a shared upbringing. When
he wrote to Allan Shaw, who owned the farm machinery workshop in
Forres, the offer of work was still open. Indeed the man's faith in
Walter was such that he guaranteed lodgings as well. A year later
Margaret was able to leave her life of refined slavery, as a housemaid
at Scullen House, on the Countess of Scarfield's estate. They married
at Elgin Registry Office, renting one of the many farm workers cottages
left empty after the war. Though post war shortages continued to affect
the lives of many, the couple hardly noticed them.

They took the twins to the Nairn Games when they were two. The event
was historically a family day out, where sideshows, dodgem cars,
coconut shies and shooting galleries, vied for patronage alongside
serious sporting events such as caber tossing and Cumberland wrestling.
By late afternoon, parents as well as youngsters, weary of the noise
and heat, gravitated towards the gates leading to the bus stop.

The two families were facing each other at close quarters before they
realised. Walter instinctively stopped walking, placing his arm around
Margaret as she frowned and steadied the pushchair.

Jean looked much older than passage of time could account for, having
acquired her mother's unbecoming seriousness. For a few seconds he
pictured how she had been on the night of their fumbling lovemaking in
the bothy. Tom Robertson towered protectively over his wife, while aunt
Mary stood some distance away, fussing over an ice-cream stain on the
young girl's dress. The girl seemed surprisingly tall for her
age.

"Aye Jean, it's been a lang time." He nodded to the man. "Tam."

"Watty," she acknowledged, her eyes moving towards the mother and
children.

Walter, who had earlier fought off the instinct to doff his cap, now
struggled for words. "This is my wife Margaret... Eh...the loons are
twins...they're, eh, two an' a bit. Meg, this is Jean an' Tom. They
ferm Logiewell, ye ken - where I used tae work."

Margaret dropped her eyes in deference, blushing awkwardly, looking as
if unsure whether to shake hands or curtsy. "Pleased to meet you, I'm
sure."

At the bus stop, Walter turned to watch the other family as they
boarded their car. The young girl appeared to be gazing at him as they
drove past.

Margaret broke the silence. "Watty, ye' hivna said a word since we met
that couple. Is there something wrang?"

Walter shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. He pulled her close.
"No lass, nothing's wrang. I've a bonnie wife and twa strappin' bairns;
whit else could a man ask for?"

The girl in the car looked back at the bus stop until it was just a
speck on the horizon. She was a healthy ten-year-old, who would never
lack love or security. Yet, like Walter, she would never know her real
father. Then again, with luck, she'd never need to.

Ends.