Free Time Shall Reap by Doris Davidson Page A

brimming eyes spill over, and Lizzie’s sniff sounded suspiciously as if she were on the verge of weeping, too, but she said, brusquely, ‘Stop your nonsense, lass, or you’ll make your-self ill.’
    Nettie and Kirsty, however, joined in her rejoicing as soon as she had the opportunity to tell them, the letter being shown proudly and inspected with great interest.
    ‘Oh, I’m right happy for you,’ Nettie burst out. ‘I didna believe you before, for I thought you was just making it up to make us jealous.’
    ‘It’s that romantic,’ sighed young Kirsty. ‘And it’s really real, not a story. You’re awful lucky, Elspeth.’
    ‘I ken,’ Elspeth said, blissfully.
    At suppertime, when Geordie was told that John had sent a letter of apology, he muttered, ‘Saying he’s sorry doesna excuse him for keeping you waiting like that, and he’s not worth bothering wi’. Thank God you didna ken him long enough to get fond o’ him.’
    Knowing that it had been love at first sight for both boy and girl, Lizzie’s heart sank as she saw her husband’s tightly-gripped, disapproving mouth. Even if Forrest of Blairton agreed to let his son marry, Geordie Gray would definitely not let Elspeth be the bride.
    The letter became crumpled and barely legible over the next few weeks with the girl reading it so often, but Lizzie shook her head each evening to show that no second one had come, her own heart as sore as her daughter’s, perhaps even sorer, because she foresaw more heartache in store for Elspeth when Geordie forbade the marriage.
    ‘It’s weeks since we’d a letter from John.’ Meg Forrest voiced the thought for the first time, though it had been uppermost in her mind for ages. Her husband had no patience with worrying women, but he must surely understand what their son’s silence was doing to her. If she had only known, he was as concerned as she was, but thought it unmanly to admit it. To reassure her, he said, ‘The Huns’ll not stop fighting to give our John time to write home.’
    His sarcasm was wasted. ‘I keep praying he’s safe,’ Meg murmured. ‘Are you not worried for him?’
    His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed. ‘Aye, lass, I am worried for him, but I try not to think about it. We can do nothing except wait for word.’
    ‘Aye.’ Meg laid her hand on his sleeve to let him know that she understood what he felt, and when he went out, she washed up the breakfast things and put the kettle back on in case Willie Mavor had something for her.
    Twenty minutes passed before she saw the postman cycling up the dirt road, whistling as he always did, so she masked a pot of tea for him. She was not superstitious as a rule, but as she opened the door, she crossed her fingers that there would be a letter from France today.
    Willie knew how anxious Meg must be to hear from her son, and handed her the envelope as soon as he went inside. ‘It’s been a while since your John wrote,’ he remarked, sitting down at the table and helping himself to a home-baked scone. ‘It’s a worrying time, especially for the mothers, for they seem to take it harder than their men.’
    ‘Aye.’ Although Meg knew that he was waiting for her to open the letter so that he could pass the news on, she wanted to be on her own when she read it; she might give way and weep, and she couldn’t let Willie have that to pass on.
    At last, the postman pushed away his cup and stood up. ‘I hope young John hasna been in the heart o’ the fighting.’
    ‘I hope no’.’ She felt guilty at not satisfying the man’s curiosity, but closed the door and hurried over to pick up the letter, fatter than the only other one John had sent.
    ‘Dear Mother.’ The words danced on the page and she had to rise to get her spectacles. She had been having trouble reading anything other than fairly large print for some time now, and had seen the optician on his last monthly visit to Auchlonie. It was only a week since she had collected the