It’s the women, y’ see, Miss Grant. A’ tryin’ to get ma attention. Fair distractin’, that.”

Stranger At The Door, Day 24

Bunty Grant poked Thor with a stockinged foot. “Move,” she ordered. Growling slightly, the dog deserted his place in front of the fire. “Down.” She pushed Vulcan, who was asleep on her sister-in-law’s chaise longue. He slid on to the carpet leaving another trail of muddy paw marks on the cream damask. Bunty placed her feet on the fender and let her wet socks steam gently.

“Filthy day,” she told her father’s portrait as rain beat a tattoo on the window. “Soaked again. It would make the most cheerful person depressed. And if that’s not enough...” She waved a letter from her suitor in the air. “I’ve had another letter from Giles telling me he’s decided to come and see me. Says he’s pining. Silly man. Just listen to this... “I would go through fire and flood for you, my dearest Bunty, or brave the terrors of the wilderness, which I intend to do once I have packed a valise and checked my rail timetable.”

Thor, apparently asleep, gave a loud snort. “I’m glad you think it’s funny.” Bunty poked him with her foot. “Just you wait till he arrives. He hates dogs. Takes the vapours at the very sight of a Pekinese.”

“There’s a wee shilpit nacket at the back door,” the housekeeper, Mrs Goudie, said from behind Bunty, making her jump. “A what, Mrs Goudie? Translate, please,” she requested.

“A wee fella, astray in his claes. Wearin’ a bunnet like a little parasol.”

“What does he want?”

“Says he’s heard there’s a job goin’ here and he’s come t’ apply for it.” Disapproval oozed from every syllable of Mrs Goudie’s words. “Ah told him there’s nae job, but he’s persistent. Cheeky wee rascal. Will Ah send him away?”

Bunty beamed at her. “But there is a job, Mrs Goudie. At least, Mr Goudie says there is. And he’s in something of a hurry to have that job filled, since we can’t get casual labour from the farms at the moment.”

“I’ll bring him in, then.” Mrs Goudie sniffed, turning on her heel. Bunty smiled to herself. The afternoon was beginning to become slightly less boring.

“Take off that bunnet. Show a bit o’ respect,” Mrs Goudie said to the caller. “In there.” She pointed to the door of the drawing-room.

Tricky Binnie took a deep breath and, clutching his bunnet to his chest, presented himself to Miss Bunty by delivering a bow and an ingratiating smile.

“Good afternoon, Miss Grant. Ah’ve come efter the job. The name’s Binnie, by the way.”

Bunty beamed. “I know you,” she said. “You’re the little man who looked after the bay when I was down at Langrigg recently.”

“Guid gear goes intae sma’ bulk, Miss Grant.” Tricky sounded slightly offended.

Bunty peered at him. “You’re not by any chance the famous Tricky Binnie?” Bunty asked doubtfully. “Mary Ellen’s neighbour? She mentioned you to me recently. Something about you wanting off the pithead. Trouble with your job or some such thing.” Tricky sighed.

“The same. It’s the women, y’ see, Miss Grant. A’ tryin’ to get ma attention. Fair distractin’, that.”

“So the ladies have a liking for you?” Bunty encouraged. Tricky sighed. “Oh, aye. But Ah’m a happily merrit man, Miss Grant. Well, happily maist o’ the time.”

“And the rest of the time?” Bunty was beginning to enjoy Tricky’s company.

“My Magrit’s crabbit.” Her visitor sighed. “Mind you, my mither warned me. ‘That Magrit’s a skinny wummin, an’ skinny wummin are aye crabbit’. Guid workers, mind. A skinny wummin’ll keep a guid clean hoose.” He sighed deeply. “But aye crabbit.”

Bunty was becoming entertained. She invited Tricky to sit down and rang for tea.

Thwarted ambitions

Mrs Goudie, setting down the tray with a disapproving rattle, directed a look at Tricky like a poison dart. He smiled at her and launched into an entertaining account of his life, his thwarted ambitions, his unrecognised talents.

At last, Bunty remembered that he was looking for a job in the Grant household. “How did you come to lose your job down the pit, Tricky?”

His teacup rattled slightly in its saucer.

“A serious illness that struck withoot warnin’, an’ me no’ bein’ ane for complainin’, I was hingin’ for days an’ tryin’ tae work, but no’ makin’ much o’ it. Ah’d never missed a day’s work till then, Miss Grant, but y’see...” He thought for a moment. “The first day, Ah wis no’ very weel, the next day Ah wis no’ weel, then the day efter that Ah wis awfy no’ weel...”

“What would have been the next stage of your illness, Tricky?” Bunty was intrigued. “Deid!” Tricky sighed. “The truth is, Miss Grant, Ah’m no’ cut oot for workin’ doon the pit. Mither aye said aAh could ha’ made somethin’ o’ mysel.”

Bunty resisted being drawn into another of Tricky’s meanderings. Time was getting on. “Right. I’ll tell you about the job,” she said briskly. “It’s simply being an assistant to Mr Goudie, seeing to the horses.”

“Me an’ horses get on fine,” Tricky replied. “They say they’re maist intelligent beasts – guid judges o’ character.” Bunty eyed Thor, who was scraping gouges into the drawing-room door in his anxiety to get out. She pressed on. “General duties at Mr Goudie’s behest, helping the gardener, especially in summer, cleaning out the stables.”

“Nae bother,” Tricky said.

“A month’s trial. Wages based on performance to begin with. In the meantime, I’ll give you a little more than you’re getting on the pithead, but if you do well, that might increase.”

She got up. Tricky rose, too, and sketched a bow. “At your service, Miss Grant. You’ll no’ regret this.” Feeling slightly dizzy, Bunty showed him out. She wasn’t so sure.

Relentless

Sarah sighed as she drew the curtains against a bleak evening that sent showers of sleet against the window and a wintry wind that made panes rattle.

She turned to glance at an unusually silent Daniel. He was sitting, elbows on knees, chin in hands, staring into a fire which was burning low. She sighed again. Her husband seemed in no mood to talk. For days now he’d been locked into long periods of silence. “The fire’s burning down, Daniel,” she said.

“I’ll see to it.” With a curt reply, he disappeared into the scullery to fetch coal. Sarah glanced at the clock. Time to go and make up his piece box for next day, to set the tray for his breakfast. She sighed.

There was usually a lightness, a sort of joy in these little tasks, but without Daniel’s presence, they were simply part of a relentless round of duties, where that clock on the mantelpiece ruled every minute of her life. And Daniel, for the last few days, had not been present in their little house. In his mind he had been somewhere else, in a place where, try as she might, she couldn’t reach him.

Was it the result of his visit to his parents, Sarah wondered, before dismissing the thought when she remembered the laughter and chat of their visit to Mary Ellen’s house just a week before. He had been the same loving Daniel when she’d related her experience at the wash house, had gently rubbed the knots out of her aching muscles as she had tried to recover from washday.

More on Monday.

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