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Barra had some idea of what ‘poofy’ meant. He certainly knew enough to recognise that, if indeed he was ‘poofy’, he shouldn’t be interested in girls. But he was. Very interested. For in that spring of 1965 Barra had fallen in love, his young heart rendered helpless by a barefoot pop singer named Sandie Shaw; the only woman to have removed Rose to second place in the boy’s affections.
Rose wouldn’t have minded at all, if Chalmers didn’t see fit to remind her of her demise every chance he got. ‘Fair play to him. It’s time he was cutting the apron strings.’
Rose gritted her teeth. How could Chalmers forget? Or was his mind so befuddled with thoughts of Sheena Mearns that he didn’t want to remember. God, the long days and nights they had held on to each other – and to Barra – praying the child would make it, that he’d survive.
Well, dammit, didn’t he just, though? And wouldn’t she herself? Survive, aye. And she’d see Sheena Mearns in hell before she’d give her husband up that easily!
But as quickly as her resolve had hardened, it dwindled – and disappeared. For Rose had been abandoned once. And if her own mother hadn’t wanted her, how could she possibly hope to keep this man she loved more than life itself?
The afternoon sunshine streamed into her kitchen, warm and bright, burnishing her hair, as vibrant and auburn as her son’s. Rose Maclean lifted her face to it, and shivered.
* * *
‘Wake UP, Maclean!’
Barra jumped. ‘Sir?’
Mr Macdougall shook his head. All of his colleagues at Craigourie High School agreed that Barra was university material if he’d just put his mind to it. But that was the problem – Barra’s mind was never where it should be. He would certainly have to be moved away from that window, Mr Macdougall decided, if there was to be any hope of steering him towards his O-level History.
Barra gnawed on his bottom lip for a moment. Then he smiled – a smile that would melt you if you didn’t feel like giving him an occasional slap.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Barra apologised.
‘Would you care to join the rest of us, Maclean?’
The bell sounded.
‘Saved by the bell, sir.’ Barra beamed.
‘Indeed,’ Mr Macdougall answered, too weary at four o’clock on the last Friday of term to argue further.
The teacher watched as his pupils, calmed as much by the warmth of the classroom as the knowledge that a fortnight of freedom awaited them, filed obediently out.
Barra, however, had leaped to life and rocketed through the door, throwing a cheery ‘See you, sir’, behind him.
The boy was just too exhausting altogether.
* * *
Barra headed for the bike sheds, relieved to see that the Yaks were nowhere in sight. Freewheeling down the brae and on to the High Street, he kept his eyes firmly ahead as he approached the Iacobellis’ shop. Sure enough, the twins were lounging in the doorway, obviously having left school early – a not uncommon occurrence.
‘Get back in yir pram, y’wee poofy bampot.’
‘Aye, get back in yir pram.’
‘Bampot! Bampot!’ In unison.
People in the High Street clucked and tutted their way past the twins, some curious enough to stop and take a look at the ‘bampot’. The traffic lights at the end of the High Street stubbornly refused to turn green and Barra, in an effort to get as far away as quickly as possible, dismounted and wheeled his bike across to the other side, barely missing an elderly woman pulling a shopping trolley behind her.
‘Y’wee bugger,’ the woman complained, leaning against a shop window to catch her breath.
‘Sorry, missus,’ he called back, swinging back on to his bike and heading for the bridge.
Barra said ‘sorry’ a lot.
Once across the bridge, Barra relaxed, and cycled slowly onwards to where the road rose steeply towards Drumdarg. Much of what had once been a thriving country estate had been swallowed into the suburbs of Craigourie, but over the crest of the hill Drumdarg House still marked the beginning of the old village.
Barra loved every inch of it. He was at home here, away from the noise and the traffic, his mind free to roam wherever he chose; the shifting patterns of the land, the big skies and open fields all grist to the mill of his imagination.
Within minutes he had put the Yaks and their abuse behind him, for stretching before him lay two whole weeks to spend as he chose. Mind, the Easter holidays weren’t like the sprawling holidays of summer, but they were still great. Even though nothing much seemed to happen, Barra’s days were full of them – the happenings.
Wild broom spread along the roadside and clung tenaciously to the rocky mountain reaches. Most of the shrubs were in full flower, but he inspected every bush until he found one with blossoms still held tight by the green pods. He stopped to listen, trying to isolate the little cracking sounds which signalled the birth of the golden flowers.
There! And there!
Barra grinned. ‘Grand,’ he said, and pushed onwards towards the crest of the hill.
Spring came late to Drumdarg, and this year March blizzards had almost obliterated any hope of it coming at all. But it did arrive, and it was everywhere, and all at once.
Where recently wild crocuses had carpeted the earth, new clumps of daffodils grew confidently in their place, and on the trees leaves burst from branches laid skeletal by winter. Snow still wrapped its crystalline blanket across the mountains’ shoulders, but the air was warm, and softer than it had been for months.
Barra came to a stop as a flock of wild geese flew noisily above him, then wheeled in a perfect ‘V’ to settle on the greening earth. He watched them for long minutes before turning to make his own descent. As he swung back on to his bicycle he noticed a figure in front of the gatekeeper’s cottage. Barra shook his head.
Poor Hattie. She’d been there every day this week, and she’d probably be there every day next week – at least until Easter had come and gone.
Barra had seen Kenneth More in quite a few pictures, and was bound to agree with everyone else in Drumdarg that the chances of the actor arriving at Easter to carry Hattie off into the sunset were slim, to say the least. Still, it hadn’t stopped her from telling anyone who’d listen (and precious few did) that the great man was definitely coming to fetch her.
But as fanciful as Hattie’s notion might be, it wasn’t the reason for her nickname. She had been known as Mad Hatters for as long as Barra could remember, long before she had taken to waiting for Kenneth More.
Barra tried to recall when he’d first heard that Hattie had been taken to the jail for murdering her mother, but he couldn’t – at least, not clearly. It had happened so long ago, and he supposed that the stories of the trial and how she’d been set free had been embellished over the years.
Barra couldn’t help thinking that the folks in Drumdarg, and Craigourie too, if it came to that, loved nothing more than a wee bit of gossip.
Even so, he had yet to receive a satisfactory explanation for Hattie’s mad – and quite uncharacteristic – behaviour all those years ago. It seemed to Barra that folks just naturally seemed to clam up any time he raised the subject. It was quite frustrating altogether, but then Barra had little time to dwell on life’s frustrations.
Well, he’d stop and pass the time with Hattie anyway. Maybe it would take her mind off the waiting.
Barra pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. He had never been able to master the art, but it didn’t bother him. In his head he could hear every note.
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_0d66fc5f-a8d1-5dd0-be15-26943138aff1)
Hattie was standing quietly in front of the large wooden gate which marked the entrance to Drumdarg House, just as she had done in the weeks before Easter for the past three years. Her eyes scanned the road in both directions, and Barra knew she had noted his approach long before he got there.
Barra was fond of Hattie, rushing to her defence whenever he heard someone remark that she ‘wasn’t the full shilling’. He didn’t have to defend her too often, however, as Hattie Macaskill wasn’t top of the list when it came to gossip. She was just part of the scenery.
He waved as he closed the distance between them and, tentatively, she waved back. Laying down his bicycle, Barra walked over and climbed on to the bottom spar of the gate.
‘How are you the day?’ he asked.
Hattie nodded. ‘I’m OK,’ she answered. ‘I’ll be leaving soon, when he comes to fetch me.’
‘Aye, well …’ Barra said. ‘It’s a lovely day for it.’
Hattie crossed her arms, waiting. She was a small, rounded woman, and today was clothed as usual in a brown jumper and matching tweed skirt which looked as though they had withered on her. With her spiky hair and fierce features, it crossed Barra’s mind that she resembled a malevolent hedgehog.
He was immediately ashamed of the thought, for he knew that her appearance masked a gentle heart and, when you got close up to her (which nearly everyone avoided), you could see that she had a nice smile – sort of shy; and that her eyes were a soft grey colour, like the velvet curtains Mam had in the front room.
Barra jumped from the gate and picked at a stray daffodil.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
‘Och, Barra, don’t be doing that.’ Hattie looked uncomfortable, and shrugged a little farther away from him, her head bowed.
‘C’mon, Hattie. Look at me. Lift yir head.’
She raised her neck free of its woollen collar and Barra tried to stick the flower behind her ear. It held for a moment, and then fell. Hattie caught it in her work-worn hands, cradling it as though it were the finest crystal.
‘Aye, it’s yirself that likes it.’ Barra grinned.
‘Away y’go,’ Hattie murmured, but she, too, was smiling.
Barra jumped up, and reached for his bicycle. ‘Yep! I’d better get going,’ he said. ‘Mam’ll be at me for dawdling. Again!’
There was no need to say goodbye. Hattie wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Barra looked up the driveway leading from the cottage to the big house. ‘Where’s Murd the day?’ he asked.
As if in answer, a dog began barking and Murdo Macrae appeared from the back of the big house, Gallus running at his heels.
‘Hi, Murd,’ Barra shouted across the distance between them.
Murdo raised his walking stick in salute and bawled at the dog to stop barking, at which the little white Westie sat stock still and gave a melancholy howl.
‘What a sense o’ humour he’s got,’ Murdo called, bending to give Gallus a few fond strokes.
‘He’s great,’ Barra agreed. ‘How’s Mrs Macrae?’ he went on, as Murdo and Gallus neared.
‘Fit to be tied, Barra. Fit to be tied.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Och, we had word the young master’s coming up, and …’
‘But I thought she liked Mr Cunningham,’ Barra interrupted.
‘Aye. Aye, she does. Of course she does. But he’s bringing herself with him.’
‘Mrs Cunningham?’ Barra was pleased. Marjorie Cunningham had visited the family home only once before, and he’d not had a chance to meet her. It would be a fine thing to have a new face around.
‘The very same. And you know Helen,’ Murdo answered. ‘She canna be doing wi’ Sassenach ways.’
Barra grinned. There had been comments made about Mrs Cunningham’s ‘Sassenach ways’ after her last visit. But then she was from London. You couldn’t expect her not to have Sassenach ways. In fact, Barra was most interested in finding out just what ‘Sassenach ways’ were.
Murdo placed a hand on Hattie’s shoulder, making her jump.
‘Sorry, hen,’ he said quietly. ‘But I’m thinking he’ll no be coming now. Not today.’
Hattie sighed, and lowered her head again. ‘D’you no’ think so, Murd?’
‘No, hen, I don’t.’
‘But I finished my work early, and Mrs Macrae might no’ be needing me now.’
‘Och, I’m sure she can find a wee job t’ keep you occupied. Go on up ‘n’ have a wordie wi’ her. She’ll no’ be minding,’ Murdo assured Hattie.
Barra and Murdo watched as Hattie trudged up the driveway, Gallus zig-zagging in front of her.
‘She’s a poor cratur, right enough,’ Murdo said.
‘But she’s no’ really bonkers,’ Barra said. ‘Y’canna’ blame her for wanting to be whisked off by a film star.’
Murdo remained silent; silent and thoughtful.
Barra couldn’t let the opportunity pass. Maybe Murdo could enlighten him.
‘It’s no’ why they call her Mad Hatters, though, is it?’ he enquired hopefully.
‘No-o-o,’ Murdo sighed.
‘I mean, it was an awful thing that happened to her – to be accused o’ murder. And her own mam at that.’
‘Aye.’ Murdo sighed again, heavier this time. ‘It was awful, right enough.’ Then he clamped his mouth shut, grimly jerking his beard upwards as he reflected on the trial. Few even remembered it now, but those who did recall that dreadful time shared Murdo’s feelings, and were glad that Hattie had been allowed to walk free.
Murdo shook his head. It wasn’t the kind o’ tale you’d want to burden a young mind with – especially such a fertile mind as Barra’s. God, wasn’t it enough that they all had ‘the waiting’ to contend with now?
Barra’s waiting, too, had come to its usual fruitless end. In the face of Murdo’s silence, he was forced to swallow his disappointment, realising that he’d not be learning anything new this day.
He sniffed loudly, shaking Murdo from his reverie.
A firm command brought Gallus careening back towards his master. Murdo smiled his approval, then turned to confide in Barra. ‘I canna’ imagine where she got the idea that she’d be off at Easter wi’ thon actor laddie, but … Well, y’just never know.’
‘No, Murd, y’just never know,’ Barra repeated, his voice as solemn as Murdo’s own.
Murdo hid a smile. ‘Are you off home, then?’ he asked.
‘Aye, I’d better,’ Barra answered, cycling out on to the road. ‘See you later,’ he called, some strenuous waving almost causing him to topple.
Murdo waved back. Smiling still, he bent to scratch the wee dog’s ears. ‘He’s a fine lad, that,’ he told Gallus. ‘A fine lad.’
