Stranger At The Door, Day15

Her mind turned to the whirlwind of the last few weeks since Daniel had brought her from the Brodies’ farm and carried her across the threshold

Sarah remembered that she’d pointed out to Rachel that morning that at eight years old, she was too big for the Wee School and should be going up to the proper school with the new dominie. Even as Sarah remembered that exchange, Rachel took the opportunity of pleading her case. “Mammy says I’ve to keep an eye on my wee brothers an’ oor Ruth, ’cause she’s just five,” she began. “An’ Benjie’s only three, but he follows us an’ greets if he doesna get in, forbye.

“An’ oor Abie’s aye in trouble an’ willna learn his lessons if I dinna keep an eye on him, Mammy says.” She paused for breath and eyed Sarah uncertainly. “An’ I help Mammy in the hoose, so if I help you here...”

Her voice petered out and her eyes welled up with tears as she went on.

“If you have time to give me harder lessons, I’ll try to get them right. I used t’ go up to Master Ogilvie’s school an’ he said I was clever at my lessons, but I didna go after a wee while, ’cause Da said I had to help Mammy wi’ the wee yins an’ it was too far for them to go away up to the Big School.”

Sarah’s heart melted at the sight of dark eyes brimming with tears, at sleeves rolled up over stick-thin arms. Special “Of course you can stay, Rachel,” she said gently. “You can be my special helper, too, because you’re very good at that, I can see.

“And we’ll both try to make sure that you learn as much as you can, because that’s the most important thing of all, isn’t it?”

Rachel gave a sigh of delight, rubbed her sleeve across her eyes and nodded agreement.

After she’d gone, Sarah applied herself to the class register, which recorded names, addresses and ages of the children who had come to the Wee School.

It bore far too many blanks and posed far too many questions, especially about the exact age of the pupils.

Sarah knew some of the children from her work as a pupil teacher, even though their attendance at her previous schoolroom had been patchy.

Others she remembered as pupils of her father in the big schoolroom, and they were clearly too old for the Wee School, but continued to attend, day after day, stuffed into seats too small for them.

After a while, she gave up and closed the register. There, in the quietness, with only the tick of the clock as company, her mind turned to the whirlwind of the last few weeks since Daniel had brought her from the Brodies’ farm and had carried her across the threshold of their little house.

Mary Ellen had made sure that they’d been left alone in their precious little world, and the days had gradually blurred one into the next, each one the same, a rhythm of work marked out by the pit hooter and the sound of tramping boots, of cleaning and polishing until the little house shone.

There had been unwelcome discoveries, too, like trying to use the scullery for laundry rather than face the mysteries of the wash-house and trying to get things dried in front of the fire rather than hang them out on display and run the gauntlet of the curious gaze of the groups of women who stood, arms folded, leaning inwards for a gossip.

She was lost when Daniel was at work, unable to read because she was distracted by constant noise outside, unable to settle to embroidering a teacloth planned as a present for Mary Ellen. Discreet Mary Ellen had made a discreet entrance by the back door every single day since Sarah had come to Langrigg. She always came at one o’clock, bearing a pot or a dish with a share of what she had cooked that day, accepted a cup of tea and had a chat for no more than 10 or 15 minutes.

But, struggling in a morass of unfamiliar things, Sarah clung to that visit with real gratitude. It was Mary Ellen who had urged her to make a start with the Wee School.

“Just a day or two as ye can manage it, lass. Tak’ it slowly. I’d gie ye a hand till ye get a routine, and Daniel can dae his bit,” Mary Ellen had advised.

It had been good advice, Sarah reflected as she tidied up her table in the schoolroom. The children were full of mischief but eager to learn, and the mothers had begun to accept her rather than whisper about her as she passed.

And when the children went home for something to eat in the middle of the day, Mary Ellen still made her visit, bringing something for Daniel’s meal too.

“You canna be at mill and market on Wee School days, lass,” she’d said briskly, when Sarah had protested.

Sarah smiled to herself as she locked up. On her way back to the Front Raw, two men passed. They nodded in her direction. “Aye, Mistress Morrison,” they said. Sarah smiled at them. “Good day to you,” she replied, her spirits rising. Langrigg was becoming a less frightening place.

Daniel, out of working clothes and shirt-sleeved, was stirring a pot on the range.

“Mary Ellen’s mutton stew,” he announced, before enveloping Sarah in a hug.

“I’ve peeled the potatoes,” he murmured into her ear. Sarah laughed.

“Whispering about potatoes. Is that what they call sweet nothings, Daniel Morrison?” At last they sat down to eat. “Sarah,” Daniel began seriously. “We’ll have to get smaller plates or a bigger table.” Unsmiling The two of them were still laughing when they heard the sound of the pony and trap.

“It’s Jess.” Sarah flew to the door. “She promised to come once we were settled in, but...” Her voice petered out as she opened the door to a flustered Jess, who took her hands, her expression grave.

“Sarah, you have a visitor. She came up to the farm a wee while since. I had no chance to warn you and...”

Behind her a woman with greying hair and a severe expression stood unsmiling. She was dressed in black.

“Aunt Bertha.” Sarah, pale with shock, stepped back. Daniel’s arms immediately encircled her waist, holding her fast.

The other looked at her for a moment, still unsmiling. “I expect you know why I’ve come here, Sarah,” she said.

Sarah shrank back into Daniel’s arms. More tomorrow. This story was originally written specially for The People’s Friend, which published it under the title The Life We Choose. There’s more fiction in The People’s Friend every week, available from newsagents and supermarkets at £1.30.

Artwork: Andrew Lloyd Jones