Pillboxes

Referring to the query by Colin Dempster about the pillboxes at Douglaswood, Bruce Sim says: “RAF Douglaswood was one of a series of Chain Home air defence RDF (as radar was then called) stations around the British coast. The installation was protected by at least five pillboxes.

“After the war, I think the TA used the site up to the mid 1960s before the Scouts took it over. I remember the TA borrowing my father’s tractor and trailer at weekends to tidy the place up before they left the site. More information can be found on the internet – search RAF Douglaswood.”

Episode 47

Beathag glanced at Lilias, expecting her to explain. Her own Scots, although growing in confidence, was still hesitant. “It’s made with water from a holy well called Tobar Moire, Mary’s well, on the other side of the island,” said Lilias. “I suppose you might call it a spring.

“It is something of a catholicon for all diseases, or so the people here believe, and we always keep some in the house. It’s fresh and cool and none takes ill from drinking it. But all the water here is good.’” “How do you make the physic?” he asked. “Beathag makes a tincture from the blessed thistle. And a few other herbs for good measure. Self-heal, marigolds. And honey, of course.”

“I didn’t know you had the knowledge of such things.”

“Oh, we are not quite savages! We cultivate a small physic garden among the kale, in the shelter of the wall beyond the tower. Not everything will grow here, but some things will. It may do your friend good, if you can encourage him to drink.

“And...” she glanced sidelong at Mateo, “it might do you some good as well. At least it will do no harm.”

“But I’m not ill.”

“No. But Beathag tells me your spirit is troubled and your sleep likewise, and we must not neglect you in trying to treat your friend.”

Mateo had another shameful desire to weep. He had been beset by these sensations too often of late. Her sympathy struck him to the heart.

And for a foreigner, and an enemy at that. He could feel the constriction in his throat, and the tears forming behind his eyes.

It would be terrible to weep in the presence of these two women. He clenched his fists, trying to banish the misery that had descended on him like clouds on Meall Each.

To his surprise, Lilias reached out and caught hold of his hand. Her fingers were cool and dry.

“Sir – there’s no shame in sorrow. You’ve seen unimaginable horrors. You and your cousin both. You must take time. This is a peaceful place, for now.”

“So it seems.”

“It hasn’t always been, for sure. There have been turbulent times for us, many of them. And it will not always be peaceful. Who knows what the future may bring? Those who can foresee such things have no great comfort to give.

“These are troubled times as you well know, and there are troubles to come. We are small people, caught up in the grand dreams of others.

“But for the present, my father takes good care of all who rely on him. You have washed up on a tranquil shore. Let it soothe you for now. Be like the lilies of the field. Be like my namesake, in the words of yours.”

“Mine?”

“Mateo. Mata in my tongue. Matthew in the Scots tongue, I think. Or Matha, sometimes.”

He found himself eager for her fingers to remain on his, and he clung to her, briefly. She smiled and her smile lit up the gloomy room.

“Be not anxious for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on.”

She quoted the words almost merrily, as though they were deeply ingrained in her. As though they were favourites with her.

“Behold the birds of the heaven, that they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns. Are ye not of much more value than they?”

She paused, retrieved her hand suddenly as though reminded of the unsuitability of the contact by Beathag’s frown, even though the older woman had understood only some of the conversation.

“Beathag,” she turned to her companion, full of mischief. “I’m quoting the holy bible. These are my verses. My mother always said so, at any rate.”

“Aye,” said Beathag, dourly in her own tongue. “Quoting the holy bible and holding hands with a foreigner!”

Lilias laughed even more, but keeping her hands neatly folded, resumed her instruction.

“And which of you, by being anxious can add one more cubit unto the measure of his life? And why are ye anxious concerning raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. Yet, I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

Confused as much by his own feelings as by the words, Mateo bowed to her.

“My lady, your name is fitting for I think even Solomon was not as wise as Lilias.”

“How charming you are! And you must know how seldom I ever receive fine compliments even here in my father’s house.

“It is not the habit of our people. But we must leave you to tend to your friend.”

She was suddenly serious. “Make him drink the physic if you can. He has such a fever, but if it will only break, he may survive.

“Beathag has brought clean linen for him and more of this blessed water. Bathe his forehead, his arms, his feet even in the plain water and all may yet be well.”

The room seemed cooler and sweeter when she left. It was as though for a brief moment her presence had illuminated and freshened it.

He could and did follow her instructions to the letter, bathing his cousin’s poor attenuated body, and encouraging him to drink, wetting his lips with the physic constantly when it seemed that he could not swallow.

Whether it was the physic itself, the water from the holy well, Mateo’s constant ministrations or Francisco’s own spirit rejecting an early death, he couldn’t say. But the young man recovered.

One night the fever left him. The bedcovers were wringing wet and Mateo feared that the end had come.

However, in the morning, Francisco sat up in his bed, as weak as a kitten, but cool, wide awake and able to eat a piece of oat bread and drink from a cup of Beathag’s heather ale.

When he slept again, it was peacefully, his breathing gentle, and Mateo was able to leave him alone and report on the improvement to those responsible for the physic.

Mateo had a desire to weep. He had been beset by these sensations of late. Her sympathy struck him to the heart

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.