The Road to Rowanbrae by Doris Davidson

calloused.
    Oh, God, she thought, in anguish, if he were Doddie she would be in the bed beside him like a shot, but she was tied to this ugly brute of a man for the rest of her life – or his – and she would have to try to forget the magic of Doddie’s kisses, as she would have to try to forget the manner of Jamie’s death. She was absolutely positive that she would never forget either the boy himself – or the man she loved.

Chapter Seven
    â€˜The new packman should be here the morn,’ Jess observed.
    Mysie nodded. ‘I wonder what like he’ll be?’
    â€˜He’s bound to be younger than Jockie,’ Jess grinned, ‘but mind you, Jockie was a fine auld man – never a bad word to say aboot onybody. There’s nae mony folk like that nooadays.’
    â€˜No, an’ he could mak’ you feel as though you was his maist important customer.’
    â€˜I used to be sorry I couldna buy mair fae him,’ Jess said, pensively, ‘but he ken’t I hadna the bawbees.’
    â€˜Aye, he never tried to mak’ you buy ony mair than you asked. I aye took him in an’ gi’ed him a cup o’ tea, should I dae that wi’ the new man?’
    â€˜You’re auld enough to mak’ up your ain mind aboot him when he comes.’ Knowing Mysie’s vulnerability with young men, Jess issued a warning. ‘I wouldna gi’e him ower muckle rope to start wi’, if I was you, though. It’s best to go canny.’
    Remembering that it was on the day of Jockie’s last visit that the tragedy had occurred, Jess wished with all her being that she hadn’t brought up the subject, for Mysie hadn’t got over Jamie’s death yet. She’d carried on bravely from the day after the funeral, but her heart hadn’t been in what she was doing, poor soul. It was really a good thing that it would be a new packman, for it wouldn’t remind her so much.
    Standing up, she said, ‘I’ll need to be awa’. See you the morn.’ She had never missed a day going to Rowanbrae for the past three months, no matter how busy she was, and knew that her friend depended on her visits.
    After Jess left, Mysie rinsed out the cups, thanking God once again for their friendship, deeper than ever since that awful day. She was gradually coming to terms with her loss, though she would never get over it completely, and the mention of the new packman had kindled her interest. In fact, she realised in some surprise, she felt quite excited about it, and she would likely have a big disappointment when she saw him. Even if he was young, he might be fat and greasy and sweaty and she just hated sweaty men. Sweat from hard work was a different thing. Jeems often came home sweating, but after he washed, he wasn’t so bad, and Doddie Wilson had been sweating when he’d danced with her, but his sweat smelt different from Jeems’s – sweeter, more manly. But she hadn’t seen Doddie since the meal and ale four months ago, and there seemed little chance of ever seeing him again.
    Sandy came home then, putting Doddie out of her mind, even making her forget her speculations about the new packman. He went straight to the pantry. ‘Can I ha’e a scone an’ butter, Mam? I’m that hungry I could eat a …’
    â€˜You’ll get your supper in a wee while, just go an’ change your claes, that’ll tak’ your mind aff your belly.’
    â€˜It’ll nae dae that.’ But he did as he was told, and was back in the kitchen with his old clothes on by the time Jeems came in. ‘We got muppelication the day,’ Sandy announced, when they were sitting round the table. ‘I canna mak’ heads or tails o’t, an’ Meldie was ragin’ me …’
    Jeems scowled. ‘The man’s name’s Mr Meldrum.’
    â€˜I ken, an’ I put my tongue oot at him an’ he saw me an’