Tales From The Dark Past - Books 4-5

Chapter 1-2

I nodded and replied, “Yes, Mrs Lunan,” for I had expected no less. A kitchen-maid’s life was likened to servitude with no hope of reprieve unless a fortunate marriage intervened and damned little reprieve even then.

“You’ll sleep in there.” Mrs Lunan jerked her thumb towards a door that led from the kitchen. “Second door on the right. You’ll share with Agnes.”

“Yes, Mrs Lunan,” I said again.

“Well, what are you standing around for? Can’t you see the floor needs scrubbing? Get on with it!”

Welcome to Kingsinch.

Welcome to Kingsinch.I got on with it. Depositing my bag and coat on one of the chairs, I fetched a pail, filled it from the pump outside, hitched up my skirt and knelt on the floor. Mrs Lunan threw a scrubbing-brush and a cake of hard green soap to me, watched for a minute, grunted disapprovingly, and stalked away to spread joy to another part of the steading.

I was never averse to hard work, so soon had the floor as clean as it had ever been, with the stone slabs gleaming and the cracks between free of any loose grains or other matter. Of course, I knew that scrubbing was as thankless a task as any woman’s work, for as soon as the farmer, Mr Lunan, came in from the parks, his boots would spread mud everywhere.

“What are you dawdling for?” Mrs Lunan asked. “There are cows to be milked. They’ve been bellowing these past ten minutes!”

I was not long back from the byre when I heard Mr Lunan’s heavy footsteps, and withdrew to the furthest corner of the kitchen, out of his way. Mr Lunan flung the door open and stormed inside. As I suspected, he was the man I had seen near the old ruin.

“And who might you be?” Mr Lunan was older than his wife, maybe in his mid-fifties, with a salt-and-pepper moustache that a walrus may have envied.

“Ellen Luath,” I said. “I’m the new kitchen-maid.” I held his eye, noting the shadows behind the iron.

“Are you now?” Mr Lunan said, nodding. “Have you seen the mistress?”

“I have, Mr Lunan,” I said.

“Aye.” He nodded again. “You’re not very tall, are you?”

“No, Mr Lunan,” I said. I had always been conscious of my lack of height, although I made up for it with a boldness of temper that stood me in good stead.

“You don’t look old enough to stand the work of Kingsinch. How old are you?” Mr Lunan asked next.

“Older than I look,” I said, for I was not willing to divulge my supposed age to him or any man.

“Above twelve then,” Mr Lunan said, in what may have been an attempt at humour.

“Above twelve,” I confirmed, “and a few years more.”

Mr Lunan nodded again, with a glint of humour in his eyes that showed he appreciated my reply. “Spunky, are you? You might need that here. The bothy-boys can be a handful.”

“I have two hands,” I said, “one for the bothy-boys and one for myself.”

“Is that so?” Mr Lunan slumped on a chair. “Well Ellen Luath, tea would be a good idea.”

I bustled to make Mr Lunan a mug of tea, hot and black, with two spoons of sugar, which he stirred with a deliberate motion and his gaze never straying from me. “You have scrubbed the floor,” he said.

“I have.”

“Better finish your work, then.” Mr Lunan nodded to the mud he had brought from the fields. “Mrs Lunan does not like a job half-done.”

After the scrubbing, Mrs Lunan had me make brose – simple oatmeal and boiling water - for the young horsemen who ploughed the fields and did most of the work, skilled and unskilled about the farm.

“There are three horsemen and a halflin in the bothy. Take the brose into them,” Mrs Lunan said as she watched me stir the oatmeal into the hot water. Brose was the staple food of the horsemen, the bothy-boys, in any farm steading. “And don’t linger.”

I knew that some horsemen could be quite rough, wild young men who boasted of their exploits to their colleagues, so I was prepared for a baptism of fire when I entered the bothy that housed the crew. A bothy was only the name for the building where the horsemen lived; it could be any sort of place deemed suitable to hold several young, unmarried men. In the case of Kingsinch, it was a long room directly above a barn.

I tapped on the door. “Kitchen maid,” I warned, for I had no desire to surprise the men when they may be changing their clothes.

After a few seconds, a voice sounded. “Come awa’ in!”

When I pushed the door open, I stepped into a room with two skylights and a plentiful supply of fresh air from missing slates. Four solid beds stretched along the wall, with a battered table and chairs in the centre of the room, and a fireplace at the further gable. I took in the sparse furnishings with a glance and gave more attention to the four occupants of the room.

One man was older, maybe in his early thirties, a long-faced, dark-haired loon with a ready smile. He stood by the fire, watching everything I did. The second man was younger, in his mid-twenties, with serious brown eyes that studied me. He sat on a bed, taking off his boots. A third man lay on the bed. He was auburn-haired, freckled, and grinned to me, raising a hand in welcome. The fourth person was only a boy with haunted eyes.

I knew without asking what their positions were in the farmtoun, as we northerners termed places such as this. The oldest man was the first horseman, the head man of the bothy crew. From the first horseman, the others were ranked in descending order to the boy, who was the halflin, or the orra loon. The halflin was learning how to be a man, performing the menial, thankless tasks.

“Feeding time, lads,” I said, laying my tray on the table.

“You’re new,” the first horseman said. He stepped towards me, smiling. “I’m Dougie.”

“I’m Ellen,” I told him, aware his man’s eyes were assessing me from the crown of my head to my boots and back, lingering around my hips and breasts.

“I’m Andrew,” the serious-faced man said, “and the freckled fellow is Jim. The halflin is Peter.”

I smiled at them all in turn. When Jim smiled back, his freckles merged into a solid mass of orange-brown. Lifting a trump, a Jew’s harp, to his mouth, he strummed a short tune, drumming one of his feet against the wall. The halflin, Peter glanced at my face and looked away in nervous confusion. I guessed his age at fifteen, although he was tall.

“Here’s your brose,” I said. “I brought some oatcakes as well. And some cheese if you want it.”

The men looked at me in approval. Jim was first to the table, “we don’t usually get oatcakes on a Monday,” he said.

“It’s a special treat,” I said, “as I am new.” I wondered if Mrs Lunan would mind me plundering her pantry and shrugged. It was a small matter, and food was there to be eaten.

“You can stay as long as you like if you bring oatcakes and cheese,” Jim said. He stroked a hand over his smooth chin and sighed. “I’ll have to shave after I’ve eaten.”

Dougie looked at me and laughed. “Long after you’ve eaten, Jim. Maybe six months after!” He rubbed a rough hand over Jim’s jaw. “You’ve got a long way to go before you’re even half a man!”

I said nothing, aware that Jim had spoken for my benefit, testing me out, boasting of his maturity, despite his lack of years. Dougie eyed me, assessing my suitability for whatever purpose he had in mind.

“You’re not from around here.” Dougie spun a chair, so the back was towards me. He straddled his legs across it, facing me, trying to look tough.

“I am not,” I agreed.

“We don’t get many strangers in Kingsinch,” Dougie continued.

“Why is that?” I asked.

When Dougie’s smile widened, I knew he had hoped for the question. “People are scared to come to this steading,” he said.

“Oh? Why?”

Dougie leaned closer to me. “The bogles might get them.”

I did not flinch. “The bogles won’t get me,” I said, “and neither will the horsemen, so don’t think it.”

“That’s you told, Dougie,” Andrew spoke around his Jew’s harp. “She’s put you in your place.”

“There’s time yet.” Dougie settled back in his chair with his eyes promising much and his body ready to follow. “Kingsinch is a lonely place in the long nights of winter, and a woman can seek a man’s solace when the bogles are out.”

“Not this woman,” I told him bluntly, “and if you put your solace near me, I’ll chop it off.”

Andrew laughed openly at that, while Jim smiled, and young Peter looked uncomfortable. Dougie"s scowl deepened, and I knew he and I could not be friends. Men such as Dougie need to be in charge; they do not like a woman to best them in anything.

I stood up and gathered the empty crockery. “Just you remember that, Douglas Mitchell.” I had no intention of allowing another man to intimidate me.

I felt Dougie’s dislike as I left the bothy.