Merrybegotten

Researching her family history brought Fiona Pearson to Orkney and the story she found there inspired this novel, set more than 100 years ago and spanning three generations.

Paperback, 568 pages

Published 2005

ISBN 1904999050

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CHAPTER 12 Summons to Black Bull Farm

It was a bright morning in late April 1879 when Hellen received her summons.

The all-dominating Orcadian sky was cloudless and the wind unusually light. Hellen sat on her wicker chair by the But End door of Rabbitha’, enjoying the warmth of the early sunshine. Her hands never idle she deftly peeled and chopped some freshly picked potatoes, dropping them into a large enamel bowl of water balanced on her lap. The peace around her was broken only by the occasional faraway lamb bleating or the call of seabirds overhead.

Sound travelled easily in the clear open air and Hellen’s attention was alerted to the distant clopping of hooves against the dirt track approach road. Squinting against the brightness she peered out over the scattald.

For many months there had been neither sight nor sound of Meg and Hellen’s hopes soared when she saw the Laird’s small horsedrawn wagon making its way towards Rabbitha’. But as it neared she saw there was only one figure on board. It was Seth, the Laird’s messenger, who held the reins and Meg was conspicuous by her absence. Disappointment stabbed sharply at Hellen’s heart.

The Harcus children ran from their play to greet the ‘pownie an geeg’ as they called it, skipping and dancing close to the pony’s steady, plodding gait. Seth pulled the wagon to a halt, his tall shadow falling across Hellen’s seated figure. The children ran off to play and Hellen, sighing deeply, looked up into Seth’s pale blue eyes. This man was the only link she had with her youngest daughter. Hellen and Seth, two people from different generations, different worlds, whose only common denominator was Meg, stared at one another for a silent moment. Meg was simultaneously in their minds.

Seth’s silence soon made Hellen feel uneasy. A man of few words he appeared to be contemplating which ones to use, yet for Hellen he merely conjured up in her an anxiety over Meg’s well being.

“Weel, out wie it, man!” she demanded of him. “Whit is it yer here fur?”

He nodded and spoke at last. “Meg Williamson requests her mother’s presence.” He spoke formally and firmly, his deep voiced words emitting from hidden lips, from somewhere under his long moustache. Hellen was confused by his fancy words.

“Agnes, wha’s he sayin’?” she turned to her second daughter who appeared at the door of Rabbitha’ curious as to what was taking place in the yard.

“Meg wants ye, midder,” replied Agnes.

Hellen rose from her chair and handed the enamel bowl to Agnes. Standing in Seth’s shadow, she peered up into the face of this mysterious bidder, who sat holding the reins of the situation. In vain she tried to glean a hint to whither he was the bearer of good or bad news. But Seth sat motionless, expressionless, and turned his gaze out to the sea ahead of him, as if to some invisible interest on the horizon. His strong jawed face was indecipherable.

“I’ll be goin’ wie ye den?”

“Aye,” he said.

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