Chapter 6
Kitty Muirhead
‘THAT KITTY MUIRHEAD IS NOTHING but a worthless slouster – always has been.’
For the love of God, it’s my ma’s funeral. The women glance over at me as they mutter. I didn’t join the coronach. You’re meant to cry and wail to show how much you care. And maybe I do care – but I can’t bring myself to put on a show for these two-faced bletherskites from the clachan.
Can they not keep their comments to themselves? They certainly wailed loudly enough. But their grief isn’t so great they won’t turn their sharp tongues on the dead woman’s daughter in her darkest hour.
I’m boiling here in my one good dress and fighting the bile that rises in my throat; it feels wrong to be burying her when it’s warm and the sun is high. It should be dark, cold and overcast.
Ma’s wasted shape is visible beneath her shroud as the men carry her to the freshly dug grave, and lower her in.
Sweat drips from their brows despite her lightness.
She’s so small. Many years a cook at the castle, her body always had a comforting plumpness, soft and soothing – back in the days when I’d let her hold me.
But the illness wasted her body; she was skinny and brittle as a stick by the end.
There are no prayers at the graveside these days – the Calvinists have had their way in that at least, even if they haven’t been able to get rid of the drama of the coronach just yet.
As old Ben Gillander begins to shovel earth over Ma’s body, the women drift away, back to the clachan, to their gossip and their judgements.
It’s been over three months since I went to Culmaily kirkyard and damned my soul – the night the shovels were put to a much darker purpose, but I turn away from the thought.
I can’t bear it. What if someone were to treat Ma’s grave like that?
Bile rises in my throat. Ben doesn’t look up at me, and I don’t speak to him.
What is there to say? She’s dead and perhaps it’s better this way.
At least she died before my shame was visible.
My latest shame, anyway; my worst shame of all.
When the grave is filled, Ben turns without a word to take his shovel home. I stand and look at the mound of earth. The bright air is scattered with insects and the birds sing their carefree, cheerful song. Lucky them. Still the tears don’t come, even now I’m alone.
The cruel words follow me home – worthless slouster.
I slam the door of our wee hoose and look around the room that is now mine alone.
The detritus of Ma’s illness has been cleaned away – the women’s final act of kindness before the funeral.
No blankets lie on the cot by the hearth, no cups for her teas and medicines.
They knew I couldn’t be depended on to tidy up.
But I wish they’d left it as it was. Who are those interfering old biddies to clear out my ma’s things?
Nothing remains of her quiet kindness, her shuffling body moving around the room preparing food for our evening meal, the way she used to even when I should’ve insisted she rest. I shake off the shame of my laziness, the burden I was to her.
I should feel relief. That she’ll never know of my greatest disgrace.
I’m free of her disappointment, finally.
It was unbearable living with the knowledge of my failings plain on her face every day.
First my dismissal from Dunrobin, thanks to the loose tongue of Dilly Bhraggie, then the whispers about the kirkyard at Culmaily.
They even say that might’ve been what finished her off. But they don’t know the half of it.
When she became ill, my shortcomings were clearer still.
I should’ve nursed her, but I couldn’t bear to.
I had to get out the hoose – away from the smell of her sickness; the women of the clachan fussing around, shooting me their looks of disapproval.
‘Won’t even care for her own ma.’ Always muttering when her back was turned, of course.
They knew she would’ve defended me until the end.
But there’s no relief in being free of her, in coming back to this room and finding no trace of her.
It was easier to be angry with her than face up to the mess I’ve made of my life, but it’s only now I understand she was the one good thing I had left.
Her love for me never faltered, despite everything.
I look around at the beaten earth of the floor, and the wooden dresser, a gift from the countess at Dunrobin who thought so much of Ma, against the rough stone of the wall. It looks sad now, pathetic. There’s nothing here for me.
I’ve left her behind in the ground, along with the black looks and judgement of the people who’ve known me all my life.
She was the only thing protecting me from the force of their scorn.
Her respectability – job up at the castle, favourite of the countess – took the edge off my shame. Her virtues outshone my sins.
What am I supposed to do now? She’s not here to protect me and my situation is more impossible than ever. The only place that’ll employ me is the filthy saltpans, and a day’s work there is barely enough to put one meal on the table.
To think of what it is like at Dunrobin Castle – tables overflowing with roast venison, apples, fish in buttery sauce, jugs of ale.
Then there is all the ladies’ finery – boxes of jewels, rubies, pearls set in gold.
They have more than they need, and yet they deny even the smallest share to people like me. The injustice burns.
I thought what I needed was revenge against Dilly Bhraggie, to wipe the smirk off her face, but I see now that’s not the half of it.
My life here is done – I will always be a worthless slouster, as long as I live here.
What I need is to get away, to start again somewhere new, where nobody knows me and my shame.
Thank God the day is warm; I don’t have the energy to make a fire.
And there’s nothing to eat in the hoose, so I don’t need to cook.
I couldn’t keep any food down anyway, I’ve been feeling sick for weeks.
I move the chair by the hearth and sit down heavily, staring into the empty space where a blaze should be, wondering what on earth will happen to me now.