Barbara Erskine - On the Edge of Darkness

Throwing his bags down on the bed, next to which lay his trunk, he raised his hands above his head and gave out an exultant shout of freedom. They were, Robbie told him gleefully, just ten yards from the nearest pub. In the corner the skeleton of Knox grinned amiably at him. Within seconds it had acquired a hat and a university scarf, the box containing Adam’s gas mask was slung irreverently round its shoulders – it was only days after Chamberlain had returned from Munich and the threat of war had receded once more – and the two young men had pelted back down the stairs to sample a pint of Tennent’s. It was the first time that Adam had ever been in a bar.

It was a path they were to tread many times over the next few months between the exhausting rounds of lectures; in Robbie’s case they took place in the Old Quad, and in Adam’s in the new buildings in Teviot Place for chemistry, anatomy and dissection, in the Botanical Gardens for botany and in the King’s Buildings for zoology. After the initial strangeness of university life, and the shock of having so much freedom away from the deadening atmosphere of the manse, he took to the course like a duck to water, avidly soaking up each subject as it came, taking little time out to look for recreation. Once a week he wrote a dutiful note to his father. His mother he went to see at last.

She had changed out of all recognition. Gone was the tightly pulled-back hair, the sober dresses, the strained, pale face. When he walked hesitantly into the tea shop on Princes Street where they had agreed to meet he stood for a moment staring round, his gaze passing over the vivacious pretty woman with the swinging curly hair and fashionable hat who was sitting near him, already presiding over a teapot and a plate of cakes. Only when she stood up and held out her arms did he look into her eyes and see there the love and fear and compassion and feel the overwhelming rush of emotion which brought tears to his own eyes.

‘I wrote, Adam. I wrote often, my darling.’ She was holding his hand openly on the tabletop, playing obsessively with his fingers as though reassuring herself that they were all there. ‘You must believe me. You do understand? It’s not your father’s fault. He is such a good man. He must have thought it best if you didn’t get my letters.’ She looked away suddenly and he saw the pain; the glint of a tear on her eyelashes. ‘I wasn’t good enough for him, Adam. I’m weak. I needed things …’ She couldn’t speak for a moment and busied herself pouring more tea for him, her hand shaking slightly. ‘I was suffocating, Adam. I felt as though I would have died.’

He didn’t know what to say. Smiling at her silently he squeezed her hand and buried his face in his cup.

She was blowing her nose on a lace-trimmed handkerchief. After a moment she looked up at him and smiled. The tears had gone. ‘So. Are you going to be a good doctor?’

He grimaced. ‘I hope so.’ He withdrew his hand to stir some sugar into his cup. ‘If I am, it’s because I learned it from you. Visiting all those poor people in the parish. Hating to see them suffer. Wanting to help them.’

He looked down into his tea, distracted suddenly by a memory of a young man lying beneath a tree. Gartnait, with Brid’s small hands busy tending his wound. How strange. He had not given her a thought since he had been in Edinburgh.

He looked back at his mother. Her face was sober. ‘I hated all that. The visiting. I had no idea, when I married, what it entailed – being a minister’s wife.’ She paused, not noticing the crestfallen disillusion in her son’s eyes. ‘I’ve met someone, Adam. A good, kind, gentle, understanding man.’

Adam tensed. He didn’t want to hear this.

‘I hoped your father would divorce me. I was the guilty party.’ She glanced at Adam and looked away again. ‘That way I could marry again.’ She refused to meet his eye. ‘But of course he can’t do that, being in the church, so, I – well, I’ve had to pretend.’ She was staring down at her hands. Almost unwillingly Adam looked down too and saw that the narrow gold wedding band had gone. Instead she wore a ring of carved twisted silver.

‘I am sorry, Adam. I will understand if you hate me for it.’ She was pleading, still not looking at him.

He bit his lip. He wasn’t sure how he felt. Anger. Hurt. Rejection and yes, hatred, but not for her, for the unknown man who had stolen her from them.

He cleared his throat nervously. ‘Are you happy now?’

She nodded.

Again he looked away. She was happy! Had she ever really wondered how he was, imagined his loneliness, his desolation when she left? He found himself suddenly near to tears, remembering Wee Mikey’s teasing. The boys in the village had been right all along. She had gone off with another man. She was, as his father said, a whore.

He stood up abruptly. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid.’ He schooled his voice with care.

‘Adam!’ She looked up at him at last, devastated.

‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ He didn’t even know what to call her, he realised suddenly. Not Mummy. Never Mummy. Not any more.

‘We will meet again, Adam? Soon?’ There were tears in her eyes again.

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ Suddenly he couldn’t bear it a moment longer. Turning, he blundered out between the tables and almost ran into the street.

Jeannie Barron baked less often now. She had agreed to stay on after Adam left; the minister’s needs were very meagre and the house very quiet. Her work did not take her so long, and it was cheerless without Adam there. So it was with some pleasure that she looked up at the knock on the kitchen door and saw the pretty face with its frame of long dark hair peering round at her.

‘Brid, my lass. How nice to see you.’ She smiled and beckoned the child in. But she wasn’t a child any longer. As Brid sat down at the kitchen table and fixed Jeannie with a cold stare the woman felt a shiver of apprehension whisper over her skin. ‘So, how are you? You’ll be missing Adam, as we all are,’ she said slowly. She turned the dough and thumped it with her fist.

‘You will tell me where he is.’ Brid’s eyes, fixed on hers, were very hard.

Jeannie glanced up. ‘Did he not tell you where he was going?’ Alarm bells rang in her head.

‘He tells me he is going to Edinburgh to study healing.’

‘Aye, that’s right.’ Jeannie smiled, relaxing again. ‘He’s very bright is our Adam.’

‘I will go too.’ Brid folded her arms. Her expression had not changed. ‘You will tell me how.’

‘How to go to Edinburgh? That’s difficult.’ Jeannie was playing for time. If Adam hadn’t given the girl an address to write to then he had a reason. ‘It costs money, lass. You’d need to go on the bus or on the train.’

Brid looked blank.

‘Why not wait until he comes home in the vacation? It’s not so long. He’ll be back before you know it. Besides, he hasn’t written to tell us yet where he’s staying.’ She hoped she would be forgiven the lie. ‘Edinburgh is very big, lass. Bigger than you can ever imagine. You would never find him.’

‘I will ask. The people will know where the healers’ school is. You will give me money.’

Jeannie shook her head. ‘No, Brid. I’m sorry. I can’t afford to hand out money, lass. You must find your own.’

‘I will have yours.’ Brid had spotted Jeannie’s handbag on the dresser. Pushing back her chair she moved towards it, putting out her hand.

‘No!’ Jeannie had seen what was coming. Stepping away from the table she grabbed it, covering it in flour. ‘No, miss! I had a feeling you were no better than you ought to be. You get out of here now. This minute, or I’ll call the minister! If you want to go to Edinburgh you go your own way, but I warn you, you’ll not find Adam. If he wanted you to know where he was he would have told you. So, that’s an end of it, do you hear me?’