Graeme Burnet - His Bloody Project

One morning, some days into the cutting of the peats, I realised that I had forgotten the bannocks which Jetta had set out for me. Without a word to my fellows, who were resting around the edges of the bog, I set off down the hillside. It was a warm, sunny day and the morning’s work had raised a sweat on my back. As I strode down the hillside I thought I might take a few moments’ rest on the bench outside our house with a cup of milk. The village was quiet. Most of the menfolk were on the mountain and the women were likely occupied with their own household chores. My father, who by that time lacked the strength for a full day at the peats, was labouring at the foot of the croft with his cas chrom and, observing his feeble efforts, I reflected that when the cutting of the peats was done, it would be my next task to properly break the ground of what was left of our land.

I stood for a moment at the threshold of the house. After the bright sunshine, my eyes took some time to adjust to the gloom inside. A faint glow emanated from the smouldering fire and a thin shaft of light penetrated the window. I was taken aback to see a figure standing with his back to the door at the end of our table. My surprise increased when I discerned from his proportions and from the yellow neckerchief around his neck that it was Lachlan Broad. He appeared to be struggling to shift the table, his hands gripping the sides and his legs and body straining against it. This puzzled me as I could think of no reason for the constable to be attempting to move our furniture; and moreover, our table is not of such weighty construction that a man of Lachlan Broad’s stature would struggle to lift it. I was about to announce my presence when I saw two legs projecting from either side of Lachlan Broad’s hips. These legs were suspended in the air, slightly bent at the knee, roughly parallel to the earthen floor of the house. I could tell by the black boots on their feet that they belonged to my sister. I then discerned midway along the table, a second pair of hands, exerting a firm grip on the rim. I stood silently at the door and watched for some minutes as Lachlan Broad continued to strain with increasing intensity at the table. He commenced to make some animalistic noises and then, all of a sudden, quit without having moved the furniture more than a few inches. He stepped back from the table and turned towards the window. I saw his member protruding from his breeches, greatly engorged and rigid as a broom handle. He took it in his hand and pushed it into his trousers. He was breathing heavily from his exertions and there was sweat on his forehead. I had made no sound, but he turned his head towards me, as if he had all along been aware of my presence. He bid me good morning, as though there was nothing unusual in his presence in our house. He then untied his neckerchief and used it to mop his brow and neck, before unhurriedly smoothing back the hair from his face. He glanced down at Jetta, whose hands had now released their grip on the table, and walked towards me. I stood aside to allow him to pass.

He paused at the doorway and said, ‘Should you not be at the peats, boy?’

I have always disliked being called ‘boy’, as this is how my father addresses me when he is displeased, and I blurted out, ‘I am not your boy, Mr Mackenzie.’

I immediately regretted this outburst, thinking he would inform my father that I had spoken disrespectfully to him and fine us a shilling. But instead he clasped the back of my head and pushed his face close to mine and said, ‘When you’re older you’ll realise that a man has to satisfy his needs somewhere. Especially now that your dear mother is no longer with us.’ Then he laughed raucously and left. I watched him stride along the village, twirling his neckerchief in his right hand, and felt a dreadful loathing for him.

Jetta remained on the table, her own chest rising and falling, and my eyes were drawn to the dark region between her parted thighs. Without raising her back from the table-top, she pushed down the skirts and petticoats which were rucked around her waist. Then she pulled herself into a sitting position and sat there for some minutes, her feet dangling above the floor. Her face was flushed and there were beads of perspiration on her brow. I did not know what to say, so I said nothing. Eventually she stood up and smoothed down her clothing. She asked me what I was doing there and I told her that I had forgotten my bannocks. She fetched them from the dresser and brought them to where I stood by the door. Her cheeks were glowing as if she had been running or dancing. She told me to say nothing to Father about what I had seen. I nodded and asked if there was a cup of milk for me.

I took my bannocks and sat down on the bench outside the house. Jetta brought me a cup of milk and went back inside without a word. My father had his back to the house and did not look up. I watched him as he struggled with the plough, his foot frequently slipping off the peg. He worked methodically, but with little impact on the ground. I cannot say whether he had seen Lachlan Broad entering or leaving our house. Certainly for the few minutes that I watched him, he did not once look up from his labour.

When I returned to the peat-bog, Aeneas Mackenzie called me to him and told me that he would be reporting my absence from the mountain to his brother. I replied that there was no need as I had already seen him and I heard no more about the matter.

* * *

It was around this time that I made the acquaintance of Flora Mackenzie, the eldest daughter of Lachlan Broad. We had attended school together, but my unsociable nature in those days meant that to all intents and purposes we were now meeting for the first time. She was a year or so younger than me, and on account of this and the bad blood between our families, we had had little contact. At school Flora sat at the front of the classroom and, although I was unable to see her face, I imagined it to be a picture of rapt attention. She was always first to volunteer to clean the blackboard for Mr Gillies and was inordinately proud of herself when he granted her this privilege. If I had any impression of her at that time, it was of a silly girl, over-anxious to please those in authority.

One afternoon, I had been put to work breaking ground on Lachlan Broad’s croft. Flora was sweeping outside the house and attending to her infant brother, Donald. Although I had my back to her, I became aware that she was observing me. I continued my labour for some minutes, all the time conscious of her eyes upon me. I paused and turned towards where she was standing. She was leaning on the handle of her broom and made no attempt to conceal that she had been watching me. I leant on the handle of my flaughter, imitating her stance, and stared back at her. We remained there for some moments, as if engaged in a game. Then she shrugged her shoulders and went inside as if she had suddenly remembered some pressing task there. Some time later, she emerged from the house and brought me a cup of milk.

‘I thought you might be thirsty,’ she said, handing it to me.

I took it from her and drained it at a single draught.

‘Thank you,’ I said. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. She took the cup from me and went back to the house, her hips swinging as she clambered over the furrows.

One evening some days later, I was coming out of the outbuilding behind our house. I had pulled the wooden door over and was winding the rope around the rotting jamb, when I became aware of the presence of another person. I completed the task of fastening the rope as if I did not know that anyone was there. I cannot say why I engaged in this small pretence, except perhaps that I did not wish the person to think that I had been engaged in any secret activity. I must have assumed it to be Jetta, although there was no reason for her to have been silently watching me. I knew it was not my father because, after supper, he had already taken his seat by the window and once there he rarely moved until he retired to bed. Certainly it was not Flora Broad I expected to see standing by the quoin of the Gregor’s house. My expression must have betrayed my surprise, because she giggled and put her hand to her mouth, as if it had all along been her plan to startle me and she was pleased with the success of her enterprise.