Woman Who Gave Birth to Rabbits - Donoghue [30]
As if he is being led, then, he turns his weary horse towards Lynedoch.
Fair Beddie Bell I lo'ed yestreen,
And thocht I ne'er could alter,
But Mary Gray's twa pawkie een
Gar'd a' my fancy falter
Seven miles the cavalryman rides, only seven miles on his stumbling horse, but it is as if he is emerging from a nightmare. There are no plague-camps on this side of Perth; the evening air sweetens as the day cools, and the birds chime in the thick hedgerows. He rides past two labourers at work in a field, and they have their blue bonnets on, and seem as well fed as in the days of peace. His horse startles a plump rabbit from the ditch.
At Lynedoch House he learns that the Laird is gone away on business, and that Miss Gray is holed up in the reed-cutter's hut by the river, for fear of the pest.
One more mile he rides, then, with his head full of what he will say to Mary Gray, and what she may say to him. The last time they met was before Marston Moor, when he was half a life younger. He remembers her red smile, and the sad way she shook her head, when she told him she'd rather walk to John O'Groats barefoot than steal a husband from her friend Bessy Bell. And he told her Bessy Bell was the best of girls, and worthy of such devotion if anyone was, but he was not Bessy's husband nor betrothed, nor had ever asked her, nor would be no woman's but Mary Gray's. At which she shook her dark head at him and went away.
Since then the cavalryman has not caught a glimpse of the daughter of the Laird of Lynedoch, nor written her a letter—for what could he speak of, this last year, but killing?—and not a day has passed without him thinking of Mary Gray. And Bessy Bell, too, if the truth be known, because the two names go together. He has never known such friendship, himself, except briefly in the heat of battle, when you stand back to back with another soldier and know that you would take a bullet meant for him, because that is what soldiers must do. But for such loyalty to last between two girls in the calm light of day—that mystifies him, and draws him all the nearer.
There is the river, a narrow glint in the trees. At first he thinks the reed-cutter's hut is deserted—he can see no smoke—but as he reins in his horse, heart thumping with panic, they come walking up from the water. Two women, not one. Their skirts are hitched up, their pale legs wet to the knees; their arms are laden with rushes. They are laughing, and when they see him they stop for a moment, then laugh even more.
Oh, Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,
They were twa bonnie lassies!
They biggit a bower upon the ley,
And theekit it ower wi' rashes.
There is little need for explanations, in these times. They make him welcome. After the meal—the ladies are grateful for the oats and carrots, having run out of food yesterday, and the servants having failed to bring down any more—the cavalryman helps them mend their roof. Bessy soon gets the knack of weaving rushes into wide patches to cover the holes; Mary, being taller, stands on the table to poke them into place. "This reminds me of when we were children," Bessy Bell tells the cavalryman, as easily as if they were old friends and never had been anything less or more. "Mary and I, we used to make these little bowers, of green branches all carpeted with rushes."
He stares at her and remembers what he loved about Bessy Bell. Or loves. He cannot tell.
"Hours we spent," remembers Mary, "hours and hours squatting inside, playing at keeping house!"
He can picture