Hearing the slam of the door, Fleur Grant put down her teacup and arranged herself on her chaise longue

Tricky was in the kitchen, a plate in his upraised hand. “He says he’s gonnae smash every plate in the hoose.” His wife sobbed. “Says he’s protestin’ at workin’ at the pithead among the weeminfolk. Says I’ve to tak’ the job and he’ll mind the weans.” At the sight of Mary Ellen, Tricky Binnie, arm still upraised, seemed to have frozen into the form of a dishevelled statue.

“Put that plate down,” said Mary Ellen firmly. “It belongs to me. In fact, most of the plates in this house belong to me because you’ve left your poor wife with no money to buy new ones.”

Mary Ellen was a big woman. Irate, her speech became that of a duchess. Tricky Binnie took the precaution of placing the plate on the table.

“Right,” his majestic visitor began. “Magrit, go and see to the bairns.” She pointed to an upturned kitchen chair. “Tricky, straighten up that chair and sit on it where I can see you, and listen to me.”

“The pithead work’s for lassies,” Tricky said lamely as he upended the chair.

“For lassies that have to do it to put bread on the table. For lassies that have fathers and brothers and husbands that canna work. Hard, dirty work in all weathers. Lassies that are better workers than you. Wouldna see you in their road, I expect.”

Silence

Leaning towards him, Mary Ellen delivered her lecture at the pitch of her voice. Small as he was, Tricky Binnie seemed to grow smaller.

A silence had fallen on the room. Magrit stood in the doorway, four curious little faces peeping round her skirts.

“This is your last chance, and it’s for the sake o’ the bairns. I’ll speak to the colonel and try to get your job back along wi’ the rest o’ the men,” Mary Ellen continued. “But you’d better stick to it if you get back down the pit. I’m warnin’ you. For if ye don’t, Magrit’ll no have to put you out. I’ll do it.”

Tricky Binnie quailed before her warning finger. Mary Ellen snatched a sweeping brush from behind the door and thrust it at him.

“Now, clear up the mess you made,” she ordered, turning to leave. Tricky Binnie said nothing.

Back in her own house, Mary Ellen found Pate using his special “cleek” to shift the big soup pot on the range.

“Nae need to tell me what happened, Mary Ellen.” He chuckled. “I heard every word through the wa’. My, ye’re in fine voice the day, my love.”

There was pride in his voice. His wife smiled at him but said nothing.

As she busied herself preparing their meal, her mind was on Sarah, already on her way to Langrigg and her new life, buoyed up with young love and the certainty of youth.

Mary Ellen sighed. A long time ago, she had been Mary Helena, daughter of the manse, a runaway bride with a handsome young husband and with that same certainty that love would conquer all.

But it had been a long, hard road that she and Pate had travelled together. Would Sarah, at just 18 years old, have the strength to travel that same road?

She sighed at the thought.

Lightest of kisses

Hearing the slam of the door, Fleur Grant put down her teacup and arranged herself in a reclining position on her chaise longue, extending one dainty foot and withdrawing a lavender-scented handkerchief from her silk purse.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the lightest of kisses that her husband would plant on her forehead as he came into the room.

She would pretend to start into wakefulness, then plead a migraine and wheedle him into a trip to Paris for the good of her health.

The drawing-room door slammed. There were heavy footfalls across the room and Fleur was enveloped in a sudden shower of dampness. “Come down, Vulcan. Bad dog.”

Her sister-in-law’s stentorian tones made the windows rattle and Fleur opened her eyes to look straight into the face of not one but two very damp wolfhounds.

Vulcan had been joined by his brother, Thor, who was planting muddy footprints on the silk of her chaise longue. Fleur sat up.

“Get these dogs out of here, Bunty. You know that they’re not allowed in the house. They’re wet.” She winced as Vulcan shook himself and a shower of droplets caught her full in the face.

Bunty poked the fire into a blaze, sat down on the fender stool and pulled off her sturdy boots.

“Of course they’re wet. It’s raining outside and we’ve just had a brisk walk.”

Fleur glared at her resentfully as the dogs steamed gently by the fire.

“I do wish you’d take them back to Edinburgh with you,” she said. “They’re a nuisance left here with only the gardener’s boy to look after them.”

Bunty threw off her jacket and stretched out her stockinged legs towards the fire.

“Can’t take them back, and well you know it. A house in the New Town is no place for a pair of large dogs. No place for me, come to think of it, but it has its compensations.”

There was a pause, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the sighs of contentment as Thor and Vulcan settled down on the hearthrug.

Fleur rearranged herself on the chaise longue and closed her eyes. “I have a migraine coming on,” she said faintly, hoping Bunty would leave the room before her husband returned.

“Lack of fresh air.” Bunty was unsympathetic. “And not enough to occupy your mind, in my opinion. You should take more of an interest in the running of the house, Fleur, or read a good book now and then.”

Permission

“When are you going back to Edinburgh?” was her sister-in-law’s faint response.

“I think I’ll stay on here for a bit,” Bunty replied. “Giles is beginning to get on my nerves.

“He’s taken to proposing every time I go into his bookshop. I think I’ll stay away and let his ardour cool a bit.”

Fleur kept her eyes tightly shut and felt the first stab of a real headache. “I wish you’d stop giving away pieces of furniture to those people down in Langrigg,” she said petulantly.

“Are you intent on emptying the house altogether, Bunty? Do you have my husband’s permission to give things away?” Bunty got up.

“The work done by those people down in Langrigg keeps you in some style, Fleur Grant. I can give things away if I wish, as it happens. Just ask my brother about the terms of our dear papa’s will.”

She got up abruptly, lifted her boots and padded off, followed by Thor and Vulcan. The force with which she slammed the drawing-room door behind her made Fleur wince slightly.

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.