Margaret's Diary: From Scotland to Saskatchewan

By Murray McEachen

Born in Campbelltown, Scotland in the 1820s, Alexander McEachen grew up on a farm with his parents, Alex and Margaret, one brother and five sisters.
Alexander was only a teenager when the potato famine struck Scotland and his family lost everything as the laird's men burnt their home because the rent could not be paid. He feared he may have killed one of these men and boarded a boat to escape only to find himself on a Royal Navy vessel bound for the Canadas.
Once in this new land, Alexander travelled across the country working in Quebec, Montreal and the Ottawa Valley Two of his sons then ventured west to what was then the Northwest Territories where they homesteaded near Arcola in what was to become Saskatchewan.
When the eldest son died in 1930, his farm was lost to the banks during the Great Depression and the family moved to Regina.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Murray McEachen
• Release date: Dec 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301243969

Murray McEachen

Murray McEachen was born in Regina, Saskatchewan in 1947. He is the son of Canadian parents, both of Scottish descent. He served as a member of the Canadian Armed Forces for 23 years before retiring in 1989 to assume other responsibilities with the University of New Brunswick (UNB) in Fredericton. While at UNB he studied history, obtaining his Master's degree in 2006. His interest in history led him to write this, his first novel. Murray resides in Fredericton whith his wife Carol, a nuisance of cats and a large golden retreiver.

Book preview

"From the past will come the future; what it holds, a mystery,

Unrevealed until its season, something God alone can see."

In the Bulb There is a Flower

Natalie Sleeth (1930-1992)

Arcola, Saskatchewan, Canada, summer, 1930.

Mary McEachen stood outside the front door of the family farmhouse. A short, square-built woman with a pleasant round face, she stood no taller than five feet in height. Her hair was tied in a double bun like two little loaves of brown bread sitting atop her head. The day was hot, furnace hot. The weather in southern Saskatchewan had been that way for months. Mary could feel the sweat trickling down her back and legs inside her heavy, long, wool dress.

Shielding her eyes with one hand, Mary looked out over the flat, brown prairie. To the south, across the flat expanse, she saw the village of Arcola, its distorted image shimmering in the heat waves as it stood at the end of the die-straight road to town she had taken so many times.

Behind her was the large, imposing, two-storey, stone house her husband had built at the foot of the Moose Mountains. Grasshopers by the hundreds buzzed noisily, stupidly throwing their grey-green bodies against its rough, grey walls. Dust devils formed in the lee of this man-made prairie island. All five of her children; three boys and two girls had been born in this house; all were both conceived and born in the same bed. Mary fought back tears, as memories, both good and bad, drifted through her mind, all scattered and mixed up as in a dream. She remembered Agnes’s wedding. It was a small, but good party, just family and a few friends. Agnes’s new husband, Bill had been so charming with his Irish sense of humour. She also remembered her own husband John’s wake, the last time the house had been full.

She did not want to do this thing, this selling of the house and most of her belongings. It seemed so cold and heartless, so final. She did not wish to go to the city even though it would mean the boys would have a better chance at finding work. It was all the fault of the banks and those greedy bankers. They were a slippery, arrogant lot. John would have handled them; he was good at those things.

***

The full strength of the summer sun beat down on the roof of the house, making the upstairs very uncomfortable despite the fact all of the windows had been opened. Mary’s two daughters, Nettie and Agnes had been sent up to put clothes, books, and other valuables into the two large steamer trunks that had come with the family from Ontario at the turn of the century. Neither of the girls was very pleased, but it was something their mother had insisted upon and something that had to be done before the auctioneers arrived.

Well, Nettie, said Agnes. I’m sweatin’ like a pig already. Why are we doin’ this, anyway? Where are the boys? Just like men. Nowhere to be found when there’s work to be done.

Agnes, you know the boys are all workin’ somewhere. This is just somethin’ that has to be done. That’s all.

Oh, you’re right, I s’pose. I’m just tired of this heat. And I’m still mad that we have to leave here in the first place. Damned bankers, anyway.

Don’t let Momma hear you swearin’ like that. Let’s just get it over with."

Yeah, you’re right. But it still makes me mad.

Yeah, me too.

Well, here’s one of the trunks…Geeze, is it ever heavy. Come over here and help me move it.

My goodness, it sure is. Wonder what’s in it?

Let’s open it and find out...grunt, puff…There now. Hmm. It’s full of little books.

Agnes reached in and picked out one of the volumes from a pile of small leather or cloth bound books. Most had now-faded gold-leaf lettering on the front.

Nettie, these are diaries…at least that what they say on the cover.

Who’s diary?

Let’s see. Agnes opened the front cover. It says ‘Margaret’s Diary’… I wonder who Margaret was. I’m goin’ down and show Momma. Maybe she knows…And look, Nettie, they are all numbered. I’m going to find the first one and take it to her."

But Agnes, what about this work? Momma aint gonna be very pleased. She’s just gonna send you right back up.

Agnes was not paying attention. She was struggling, hunting for the book with number one on the cover.

Here it is - number one. Agnes clutched the little book and ran out of the room.

Momma, Momma. Look what we found at the bottom of one of the trunks. Looks like some kind of diary. And, and…there’s a bunch of others, just like this one.

Mary saw the small leather-bound volume, about an inch thick. Inside, the pages were sepia brown with faint pink, horizontal lines. Between the lines was a fine handwriting – likely that of a woman. Some of the script was in ink and some in lead pencil.

Let’s see it, Luv. I never did look in those trunks. They belonged tae your father. He did nae tell me what was in them, and I did nae ask… just a minute… it says, ‘Margaret’s Diary.’ I believe that was the name o’ your father’s grandmother. I’m quite sure it was.

Can we read it Momma? Please, please, Agnes begged.

Well, Lass. Hae you two finished your work?

Well, no, Momma. Not quite. But Momma, it’s so hot up there.

Awe right, Agnes. You work for another hour. Then come downstairs, and we’ll hae a peek at that wee book.

Oh, all right, Momma… but only for an hour…then we come downstairs.

***

Life on the farm at this point was very boring and Agnes was anxious for any kind of excitement. The family had always been very important to her and she regretted the fact she had never talked more with her father about her own history. But this diary would give her a window into the past. But first came those blessed trunks.

Agnes and Nettie were doing their best. They were trying to stuff the two steamer trunks and a couple of wooden crates fashioned by Agnes’s husband, Bill. They wrapped their mother’s fragile china in clothing, towels and blankets and placed them carefully in the boxes. There was no clock in the room, but Agnes had a pretty good idea that an hour had passed since they had gone back upstairs.

All right, Nettie. That’s enough for now. I’m bored and I’m going down to look at that diary. I wonder what our great-grandma wrote way back then.

I think I’m going to stay here and keep working, replied Nettie. That old stuff doesn’t interest me like it does you.

OK, Nettie, have it your way. You haven’t a romantic bone in your body. Agnes was already halfway downstairs.

Momma, Momma, where are you? Let’s look at that diary.

I’m here Agnes, in the kitchen. Awe right, we’ll do it here. There’s a table, and the light is better.

The two women sat at the kitchen table with the little book in front of them. Mary gently opened the cover and began to read:

Margaret’s Diary

Campbelltown, May 10, 1846.

I have decided to keep a record of happenings with our family from now on. I will keep a diary. I do not care how many of these wee books I use. I will continue until I can no longer write. Perhaps sometime in the future – after I am gone – someone will read these words and see how we have been treated.

I believe we are in for a tough time of it. People all over Scotland are being forced off their lands. It happened in England and now it is happening here. The lairds do not seem to have any pity or any loyalty. They are out only for themselves. They will use the land tae run cattle for profit, or deer so that their rich friends and cronies can go hunting. I suspect our lands will be used for the latter, as it is already good hunting land.

I am told there has been a potato-crop failure in Ireland. Thousands are starving and many are leaving for America, Canada, or even Australia. If that happens here, Scotland will be in for it too. There will be famine and evictions, just like in Ireland. I pray every night that it will not come to that.

CHAPTER TWO

THE MCEACHENS OF CAMPBELLTOWN

A broken, weathered, lichen-encrusted stone cross stands at the gates of the Campbelltown cemetery. The Latin inscription chiseled into its side indicates that it marks the grave of Colin McEachen and his wife Katherine, bearers of a name that has been part the Kyntire Peninsula landscape since the fourteenth century.

In 1846 Alex and Margaret McEachen were tenant farmers on land owned by the powerful Campbells of Argylle. The couple lived in a sturdy, but small, house with their seven children, two boys and five girls. The boys, Alexander and Archie, their formal schooling over, helped their father with the farm. The eldest, Alexander, discovered he had some musical talent and with his father’s encouragement learned the highland bagpipes under the rather strict tutelage of the local pipe major, Jack McLellan. Archie was too young to take anything very seriously and simply followed his older brother like a little puppy. The five girls either went to school in Campbelltown or worked at one of the local wool-knitting mills. Margaret had her days and most evenings filled with a myriad of chores. Her spare time was devoted to whatever reading she could manage and to the diary which she kept religiously.

Alex McEachen grew barley and oats (which the locals called corn). These he sold to the thirty-odd distilleries and breweries in Campbelltown and to feed his small heard of beef cattle, a few pigs and some chickens. In adition, he grew neeps, potatoes and other root vegetables for the family. He was also a qualified sailor who worked part-time plying the commercial shipping lanes between Campbelltown and Glasgow. With good harvests and the ability to sell cattle when required, the McEachens were better off than a good number of their countrymen, many of whom were forced to eke out a subsistence living on small patches of rocky ground. Rents had increased substantially over the past few years, and some with potatoes as their sole crop, were on the verge of eviction.

CHAPTER THREE

THE PIPER

"O Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen and down the mountainside.

The summer’s gone and all the roses falling

‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go and I must bide."

O Danny Boy

Frederick Edward Weatherly (1848-1929)

Campbelltown, June 14, 1846.

Margaret’s Diary:

There is a fall bite in the air and some of the trees have lost their leaves. The poplar and birch trees have turned yellow and gold. Soon the oaks will change from green to that pleasant shade of brown. The fields of grain are also turning to gold. It will not be long until harvest.

Alexander turned seventeen the other day. Seems no time since he was a wee one in nappies. He is so unlike his father. They share the same name, but that’s about all. Alex is tall and slim, whereas Alexander is short and stocky. Alex is always serious, whereas Alexander is always happy and full of life. The latter is also impulsive, often acting before thinking. It will, no doubt, get him in trouble some day.

Now, Alexander has learned to play the pipes. He walks into town once a week and takes lessons from Jack McClellan, the pipe major. I think this will be good for the boy. Get rid of some of his energy. He is even beginning to sound pretty good – much better than when he started.

Alexander had played the pipes since he was twelve. He learned the instrument from Pipe Major Jack McClellan of the Second Battalion, Glendaruel Highlanders, an infantry unit of the British Army that made its home in Campbelltown. McClellan was a taskmaster of the old school. It had taken months of lessons to get the fingering correct. Keep those fingers straight Laddie, would be accompanied by a sharp crack across the knuckles with the pipe major’s chanter.

Jack McClellan was a big man with an impeccable ramrod-straight posture. This seemed to make his six-foot frame even taller than it actually was. He had big hands with long, hairy fingers that appeared as rungs of a ladder across the chanter as he played. Alexander thought they looked like parade-square soldiers, complete with furry busbies, marching up and down.

Despite a gruff exterior, the pipe major was quite kind and tolerant toward his young pupil. Alexander, he would say. "This is how you play a burl. The little finger on his right hand audibly slapped the chanter twice in quick succession, and the chanter made a nice bubbly sound. Now you show me. Keep your chanter on the table, sae I can see your fingers."

With the pipe major’s chanter hovering menacingly, the boy placed his stubby fingers as carefully, and as straight as possible over the holes. He played three or four burls. Half of them were clear, the others, fuzzy.

I see some progress Laddie, McClellan pronounced. We’ll make a piper o’ you yet. But you must practice, practice, practice. Practice anywhere Lad. You d’nae even require a chanter tae practice. Use a stick, a knife, or a fork; whatever is available. You need nae be shy. T’is a noble thing you are doing, Lad. You are learning to play the great highland war pipe. Take pride in your craft.

For the taciturn pipe major, this was a sermon of legendary proportions, and young Alexander, as well as the other students, sat transfixed.

In the end, all Alexander could say was, aye Sir, I will try.

***

It was the twelfth of July, 1846. One hundred and fifty-six years ago at the Battle of the Boyne. Protestant, William of Orange (William III of England) had defeated Catholic, rebel forces led by James VI/II in a decisive battle to re-conquer Ireland, and it was a date celebrated by Protestants around the world as Orangemen’s Day. In commemoration, the village of Glenbarr, located some ten miles from Campbelltown, on the West Coast of the peninsula, organized a parade, complete with white horse, someone dressed as King Willie, and dozens of orange flags. They wanted a pipe band and the Glendaruel Highlanders were available and willing.

The morning dawned unusually bright and clear. Because Alexander had to wear his full uniform and carry his pipes, Alex allowed Archibald, to take him into Campbelltown with the horse and wagon. At the armoury, Alexander met up with the rest of the band who were standing around waiting – as is military custom – for transport. Transport on this day consisted of a couple of horse-drawn wagons with bench seats, designed for carrying troops or cargo. They were equipped with tailgates and rungs that performed as footholds or handholds depending on whether the gate was up or down. Once loaded and underway, the little convoy made the trip over the good dirt road to Glenbarr in just over two hours. Alexander sat beside his friend Neill Campbell who had joined the battalion at the same time and had shared the same learning experiences.

The two wagons arrived at the parade start-point at about noon and there was still an hour to stand around, look at the lassies, and tune up.

Come here you lads, came the loud voice of Pipe Major McClellan. Quit your gawkin and get tuned up…Let’s hear your chanter.

Alexander played the scale together with McClellan.

That’s a wee bit flat. Take the chanter oot and lower the reed just a wee bit. Be careful taking it oot. Reeds are dear, Lad.

Alexander did as instructed, put the chanter back in its stock and repeated the procedure.

Aye, Lad, much better. Blow them up again and I’ll tune your drones.

The pipe major moved the slides on Alexander’s drones, one at a time until satisfied. He repeated the procedure on all the sets of pipes in the band, except those of the pipe sergeant, Angus MacMillan. In Alexander’s opinion, Angus was a cranky old fart, and no one, not even the pipe major, messed with Angus’s pipes.

The little parade lasted about thirty minutes as it wended its way through the village from one end to the other, turned around and retraced the same route in reverse. It was not very imaginative, but it gave everybody in the village a chance to see the parade - twice. By now, Alexander no longer felt as though he was going to blow a gasket and he was competent enough to take part of his mind off the piping. Rather, he could take in some of the scenery along the parade route, including the spectacular ocean vistas of Glenbarr and some of the lassies as well. He had been told that women liked men in kilts and often wished to find out if it was true that nothing was worn underneath. There must be some good reason why Highlanders went ‘regimental.’

Following the parade, the band was requested to play a couple of sets at the local fare grounds. Considering the fact that pipers were always willing to play for an audience, and that free refreshments were waiting, nobody in the band – including old Angus - had any objection.

Pipe Major McClellan had little control over some of the senior members like Angus MacMillan, but to the young recruits like Alexander and Neill, he was next to God himself. His word was law and he had given the boys firm orders they were to have no alcohol. Therefore, while Alexander, Neill and the young musicians filled up on sandwiches and fruit punch, Angus, and the other adults got more or less sotted on Glenbarr’s finest beer and whiskey

***

Angus MacMillan was quite an amazing individual; a very good piper – even when totally inebriated. Here he was, leaning against the side of a barn because he could not stand without support. Yet, he was playing jigs, reels and hornpipes to perfection. It seemed the drunker he got, the better piper he became. To Alexander, it was a thing of wonder and beauty, and he and the young pipers could only watch in awe. Angus’s good friend, Andrew McTavish, a fellow native of Falkirk, was equally proficient at playing while virtually unconscious, and together, they played flawlessly for nearly an hour, pausing briefly only for refreshments.

When it was time to return to Campbelltown, Angus, Andrew and some of the others were more or less poured into the wagons. Once seated, after a fashion, on the bench seats - none of them cared a wit that they were regimental - decided that a song was in order. Angus could even remember songs when three sheets-to-the-wind. Although the words were slurred, and he was very much off-key, he got every word to an old rugby drinking song:

"The Lady of the Manor was dressing for the Ball

When she spied upon a laddie tossing off against the wall

With his great big kidney wiper, and his balls the size of three

And a yard and a half of foreskin

Hanging down below his knees

Yippee-Eye-Ay

Yippee-Eye-Oh

The Duchess wrote a letter and in it she did say

I’d rather be shagged by you, than his lordship any day.

Then, all the older pipers and drummers joined in on the chorus:

With your great big kidney wiper and your balls the size of three

And that yard-and-a-half of foreskin hanging down below your knees

Yippee-Eye-Ay

Yippee-Eye-Oh"

Angus railed off another verse:

"The laddie got the letter and he began to read

His pecker began to fester and his balls began to bleed"

Another chorus followed, just like the others. The song went on and on. Alexander and Neill had never heard anything like it. They laughed so hard and long, their sides ached.

When the wagons were about halfway home, Angus decided it was time to relieve himself but there was no good place to go. On this part of the peninsula, there was not a tree large enough to warrant being called a tree. Angus was too drunk to care. He staggered to the rear of the wagon, hoisted his kilt and let go; a garden hose watering over the tailgate. It was truly unfortunate for Angus that the Commanding Officer and his wife were following rather close in their sharp, little one-horse carriage. Angus’s tunic never did look the same after the sergeant’s stripes were removed.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE BLIGHT

Alexander was strong, healthy and did not mind hard work. He loved working the land with its earthy, peat smell. He did it with two, old and faithful companions; an old horse named Jock and his dog, McGregor and it was more pleasure than toil. Both of these animals had been saved by Alexander; Jock from the abattoir’s knife at a cost of two pounds and McGregor who was found wandering and starving on the outskirts of town.

Alexander’s father never thought much of the horse. At the time of purchase, he told his son. Laddie, you must hae more money than brains. That ol’ sack o’ bones will nae pay his keep. Alex thought better of the dog, in which he saw potential as an animal herder.

One fall morning, Alexander hitched Jock to the family’s two-wheeled cart and made for the potato field, less than a quarter mile from the house, on the other side of a grove of poplars. He unhitched the horse from the cart and harnessed him to the single-bladed plow called a cashrom. The potato tops were withered but this was normal, indicating the tubours were ready for picking. The boy unearthed a row of what seemed to be nice, healthy, brown tatties. When a row was complete, he re-attached the cart to Jock for the purpose of picking up the potatoes for the return trip to the shed.

By the time he had finished loading the first row and the air had reached to the potatoes, the little cart was full of a putrid, black, stinking mass of slime rather than firm tatties. Oh my God, what a stench!.. T’is the blight.

Alexander ran as fast as he could to the house and shouted to the first person he saw. Mother, Mother! Come quick! Where’s Father?

Not sae fast, Lad, she said. You’re speaking tae fast. I canna understand you. What is it? Your father has gone tae toon.

Mother! Come tae the field! Quick! T’is the tatties. They’ve awe gone bad. I think t’is the blight!

Margaret saw the mess in the cart. Oh my Lord! What are we going tae do? I suppose the whole crop is like this.

Aye, Mother. I think so.

***

Margaret’s complextion paled as realization set in. Leave them here for your father tae see when he returns, she said. T’is awe we can do for noo.

As soon as Alex came in the door, he knew something was wrong. Both Margaret and Alexander were waiting in the small front room looking like they had been to a funeral.

Alex, said Margaret, the tatties are bad. They’ve got the blight. Alexander will show you.

Well, Maggie, said her husband. "The news is all o’r toon. We’re nae alone, an’ some folk will come oot o’ this worse than us. T’is awe some have. T’is awe they eat.

He turned to his son. Come Lad. Let’s see.

***

The two stared at the black, dripping, foul-smelling slime. Aye, Lad, said Alex. T’is the blight. No doobt aboot that.

Father, what will this mean?

We’ll be awe right, Lad. But some of our neighbours may well be through. Take ol’ Mrs. McKay, beside us. She’s but a widow. The tatties are all she has. If she canna pay the rent, the laird’s men’ll evict her. You know what that Mr. Seller is like. He d’nae care who he hurts.

***

Just as Alex had predicted, the next day, a group of local tough guys, hired by William Seller, the Campbell’s agent and enforcer, showed up at Mrs. McKay’s tiny house. Alexander saw them coming up the road and found his father. Father, a gang o’ men is goin’ tae the McKay place. They’re carryin’ torches.

The two McEachens rushed to the next farm. Alexander confronted the closest man. You canna do this tae Mrs. McKay. T’is nae right.

The brute of a man was far larger than young Alexander; he tossed the boy aside as if he weighed nothing.

Lad, come back here, yelled Alex. You will nae accomplish anything that way.

He intercepted the leader, a man he knew. C’mon man. Mrs. McKay is nearly ninety years old. Have you nae a heart? At least give us a chance tae get the woman out o’ her hoose. If you give us a few days, my lad an’ I can take the hoose down an’ move it.

Awe right, Alex, said the big man. We’ll wait for Mr. Seller. He’s on his way from toon.

Fat lot of good that’ll do, thought Alex. Seller’s heart’s as cold as a witch’s tit – and twice as hard.

Alex and his son went up to the front door of the McKay house. Mrs. McKay. T’is Alex McEachen. Alex shouted to overcome the old lady’s deafness. May we come in?

"Aye, Alex, come in. Would you care for a cup o’ tea?

The two McEachens entered the tiny one-room house. Thank you, Mrs McKay, but we hae no the time, shouted Alex.

The little building was dark and smelled of a mixture of tea and mustiness, as if it had been closed up for a long time. Out of the darkness appeared a small, wizened woman, carrying a cat in one arm. The whole picture was dark grey except for the large, round, bright green eyes of the cat.

Mrs. McKay, you must leave your hoose, continued Alex, his voice still elevated. Seller’s gang’s goin’ tae beset your place afire. You canna stay inside."

I’ll nae move, Alex. This is my hoose, an’ Seller can do what he damn well pleases.

Mrs. McKay, please, you must leave.

Alexnader interrupted. Father, Mr. Seller is coming up the road.

Alex turned and looked out the window. The portly figure of a man dressed in a black, ankle-length coat and bowler hat, swinging a silver-tipped walking stick was swaggering around a bend in the road. Alex and his son left the house to meet him.

Well, Alex McEachen. Fancy meetin’ you here. Wanna ringside seat for the fireworks, d’ya?

Mr. Seller, t’is nae right, an’ you know it. The old woman has done no one any harm. Let us - my lad an’ me - tak down the hoose an’ move it.

What I do know, Alex, is that this is Campbell land, an’ the laird wants it back. The ol’ bitch has nae paid her rent, an’ that’s awe there is tae it. She’s lived tae long anyway.

Seller turned his back on Alex.

Let her burn, Lads.

Seller’s thugs set their torches to the tinder-dry thatch of the house. With frightening speed, flames spread up the pitch of the roof which was quickly engulfed. Within seconds Alex and Alexander felt the heat. Without a word, the two men rushed into the burning house. It was difficult to see inside the dark walls before the fire. The dense smoke that stung the eyes and burnt the throat made even harder the task of finding Mrs. McKay.

There she is, Lad… In the corner.

Despite the increasing intensity of the fire now consuming the rafters, Mrs. McKay was sitting defiantly in a chair, her bright black eyes staring at her rescuers through the haze. Her cat was crouched with its arched back to the wall, its green eyes blazing, its ears flattened and its mouth hissing at the two approaching men.

I’m nae leaving my hoose, Alex McEachen. I told you that.

Alexander, throw that blanket over Mrs. McKay. We’ll take her oot, chair and awe.

With the edges of the blanket beginning to smoke, Alex and Alexander carried Mrs. McKay out the front door of the burning house. Just as the roof collapsed in a sparkling crash, the cat bolted through the door behind them with a howl of spit and fury. The two men placed the old lady in a small shed behind the house, and only with great difficulty prevented Seller’s little army from firing it as well.

Alexander, go fetch the horse an’ cart, ordered Alex. We’ll take Mrs. McKay hame.

Aye Father.

The boy ran back home, hitched Jock to the cart and returned for the old lady.

Mrs McKay was taken back to the McEachen’s house; a house already very cramped with two parents and seven children.

Margaret, said Alex. Please put on some tea an’ heat up some supper for Mrs. McKay. We’ll have tae put her up as best we can. That damned Seller burnt her place tae the ground. It was all Alexander and I could do tae get the ol’ woman out alive.

Aye, Alex. I saw the smoke. That William Seller is the Devil incarnate for sure.

Margaret issued instructions to her daughters. Jean, put some of that stew on the stove… Helen, fetch some warm blankets… Janet, you and Agnes will give up your bed tae Mrs. McKay. Make up another for yourselves.

Margaret was aware that Mrs. McKay’s children had long-since left for the colonies, and that her husband had died many years ago. She had had only one brother and he was killed at sea. The old lady had no one left in Scotland.

Mrs. McKay, she said. You will stay with us as long as necessary for you tae get back on your feet an’ get something tae replace your hoose.

Mrs. McKay protested. I will nae put you tae awe this trouble. I will nae have your bairns put oot o’ their beds.

"Mrs. McKay, after what you hae been through, this is the least we can do. You will stay here, and that’s final.

Although Mrs. McKay was made as comfortable as possible, the shock of losing her house was too great, and within a week she was near death.

***

Monday, the 24th day of October was wet and grey, like so many in Scotland. Margaret knew that death was very near. She sat by the bedside, tenderly holding Mrs. McKay’s small, cold, boney hand. Silence was broken by a soft scratching sound at the door.

Jean, said Margaret. Will you please see what’s making that funny sound?

Mother, I see nothing.

Well something is making that noise. Open the door, Lass.

Jean opened the door a crack. A little black cat with big, green, round eyes flew through the opening and made straight for Mrs. McKay. The cat jumped silently on to the old woman’s chest where old fingers gently scratched behind a conspicuously split ear.

Mrs. McKay’s fingers stroked the wet fur but her eyes remained closed. Her lips opened and an almost imperceptable sound came forth. Minnie, you’re alive.

It was the last thing the old woman would ever say.

Margaret pronounced softly, She’s gone, poor thing. In God’s hands now.

Jean, who had been watching, spoke. Mother, it appears we now have a cat. Can we keep her… Mother, please?

Yes Dear. It does appear that way. I don’t think we hae much choice if the poor wee creature decides tae stay. It will make that decision more than you or I. She’s yours if it comes to that.

Oh thank you, Mother. I’m sure she will decide to stay…and I will take good care o’ her, I promise.

Immediately, Margaret rose. She opened all the windows despite the chilly October winds.

Mother, what are you doing? asked Jean.

Jeanie, we must open awe the windows. Just for a few moments, mind, tae let Mrs. McKay’s soul out o’ the hoose, and not let it back in. And we must also cover awe the mirrors. I have some black material in my sewing basket. And we have tae stop the clock in the parlour. We don’t want tae confuse the spirit as it tries tae leave.

Awe right, Mother, I will get the cloth from your basket. I know where it is.

Thank you, Dear. You and I are going tae have tae do most o’ this ourselves, you and I. The other girls are in toon and Agnes is too young. She will learn soon enough, I’m afraid. Getting’ the body ready for the wake an’ for burial is a woman’s work. I’ll find work enough for the lads, don’t you worry. So, while you’re fetchin’ that material also get a bar o’ that nice soap your father got me for my birthday…That’s a guid lass.

The two women stripped the body and cleaned it thoroughly.

Now, Jean, there are some clean sheets in the bedroom cupboard. We’ll use those for the shroud.

They placed the body in the sheets and sewed the edges to make a ghostlike form.

***

Alex returned home from work. Although Margaret knew Alex sensed what had happened, she said, "Alex, Mrs. McKay has passed on. You must go intae toon and notify Reverend Kennedy and the town crier that Mrs. McKay has died. The wake will be here. You and Mr. Kennedy will work out the details o’ the