by Jude Thomas
Previous to my ending it, I accompanied him to his favourite haunts – that is, those that still would accept him onto the premises. There were ‘ladies’ by his side frequently, so nothing has changed in that direction. His companions seem either to be keen to take on his bid, or to challenge him to a duel over debts. I do not hold out much hope for any of his wastrel crowd, who take opium and engage in other despicable habits. It is a wretched situation indeed, but I have done my best for my brother and can do no more.
Now, onto the estate at Thornbury that Alton was ‘managing’ after the lease had ended. Despite the reports that all was in order, and the Books that indicated the same, this was not the case. He had put a married couple into the House as overseers, but due to the fact they had not been paid regularly for some time, they had no enthusiasm in keeping the place in good order, nor in overseeing the maintenance, as no tradesman could be engaged due to bad debts. Yes, I hear you saying, ‘What in Damnation were the lawyers doing?’ More of that directly.
Then there is the farm itself. Our tenant farmers were doing the best they could, but they were afraid out of their wits that I was there to demand a higher lease, as apparently my brother had threatened this from time to time. As to the animals, they were in good shape due to the tenants’ husbandry, but other maintenance had gone downhill due to the lack of capital input for the last few years.
I was shocked and sickened beyond belief to know that those whom my Father and his Father before him had employed and housed, were left in this situation. It grieved me, too, as I had known these good people all my life. I made haste in righting as much of the wrong as I could.
It was then that another appalling fact came to light. The Law Firm whom my family have been with for generations has been derelict in its duty in the extreme, due to the Senior Partner having departed this earth, and a Junior Partner having taken over the administration of Thornbury. This would have been satisfactory, had he himself not been a swindler! It transpires that he also has the same tastes as Alton Northey, Esquire, and being an old school chum, was charmed by Alton into advancing him continuous funds. Not only that, it appears this scoundrel was taking a substantial commission of his own, by cleverly administering the situation so that discrepancies were not obvious. The accounts that were mailed quarterly to New Zealand always appeared to be in order and I daresay if I hadn’t come Home to check on affairs, the situation could have gone on until Doomsday. I am glad to report that this scurrilous individual has been relieved of his post and is now enjoying time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.
As it stands, over some six years Alton has sucked the estate to a low ebb through his addictions to vice or in paying off debts of his own. I am so very glad that Father did not live to know of this awful situation, for they loved the estate and Mother was fierce sad to leave. One excellent fact remains, and that is that all other financial investments are sound and very profitable.
So that is that, and I shall now look to the future. Everything is paid up, tenants are happy and most importantly, my brother has no access to anything other than the stipend I have allocated for him. I am in the process of appointing a new manager to run the entire estate and working hard at concluding all that must be done before June.
So, my dear fellow, I shall soon be aboard the ‘Inglewood’, and shall see you some twelve weeks after that. Perhaps you might tell our young Miss Frost that I shall also be happy to see her?
I remain,
Yours faithfully,
Edwin J. Northey
Chapter Thirty-Six
11th September 1872
Billie flexes her toes inside her woollen stockings and stout boots as she marches towards Ogilvys. She has itchy chilblains, brought on by wearing lighter shoes last week; it is technically spring but the earth has not yet thawed. ‘Feckin’ freezing’ or ‘soddin’ sodden,’ Alf used to call the chilling conditions before his loving voice became mute.
It is not that Billie is consciously vain, but she loves wearing fetching clothes, and the Prussian blue kid boots do so match the gloves she has dyed with ink. They also go well with her moss-green jacket – ‘blue and green should never be seen’ does not concern Billie Frost. Mrs Ivimey still loves sewing and with Tempe her only living child to accommodate, takes pleasure in fashioning garments for her daughter’s friend. Billie still visits Ben Solomon’s treasure trove and barters for items that she visualises can be reconfigured. A leather bootlace can be threaded through a hatband. A key can be crimped and fashioned into a brooch. Worn leather gloves can take on new life by trimming the fingers and edging them with braid. And of course, dyes can turn an old outfit into a fashionable statement.
But, as with the wearing of kid boots in September, pride has its just reward and Billie’s toes itch and throb. She is glad to reach the doorway of Ogilvys, and stamps loudly up the stairs, one more trick for circulation. Mr Ogilvy Senior does not arrive these days before eleven so she is safe and Mr James does not mind a little clatter. When she finds his door ajar she is surprised. The door has its signals: fully open is for interaction and closed is for no disturbance. Ajar is not the normal procedure.
She peers obliquely into his office. ‘Good morning, Mr Ogilvy,’ she says then draws back. But James Ogilvy calls to her. ‘Come in, my dear, come in directly and shut the door.’
His face is ashen. His hands are trembling. He is standing – Mr James never stands when Billie enters. He is sucking on his pipe and his chest is heaving. Whatever is wrong with him? Oh, whatever has she done to make him so upset?
‘Miss Frost, I have some bad news. Sit down, sit down.’
Never has she sat on a chair in this office and she cannot do it now.
‘Very well,’ he concedes, ‘but it is bad news, bad news indeed. How to put it? My dear child, I have no other way of saying this to you: it is our dear friend, Mr Edwin Northey. He has – has been taken from us. I have to tell you – he is dead.’
The floor is parting and endeavouring to swallow her up. The ceiling is swimming towards her. She slumps forward onto the floor boards. James moves shakily from behind his desk and is grateful that she is already picking herself up.
‘You must sit down, Miss Frost. There. Yes, it is true; I am so very grieved to say, it is true. He was safely aboard at Gravesend on the 27th of May, safely aboard and in good health. Then – ’ James fights for control of his voice. ‘I – we – received a cable yesterday. A cable that Eddie, that is our beloved Mr Northey, had been taken – ’
James is quivering, and Billie is gasping.
He manages to continue. ‘He had been taken ill. Very ill indeed, caught the typhoid and – and despite everything being done that could be done, and his very strong constitution – dear me – ’ he inhales deeply. ‘Yes, despite all, our friend gave up the ghost – and only a week out of his scheduled arrival back at Port Chalmers. Oh my dear girl!’
Billie sits rigid in the studded leather chair. ‘No, please do not say this, please do not say that Mr Northey is not coming back! Please do not say that my lovely Mr Northey has died! Please, oh please, tell me this is not true!’
‘I have much regret in confirming that this is the case, and my sincere condolences to you. You will see that I am very indisposed about this too and do not wish to believe it true. But it has been confirmed so, and his soul has been committed to our Lord, and his body – to the deep.’ He draws in a ragged breath.
Billie pitches up at his chest. He aware of the impropriety but is in no way able to desist and they cling to each other.
James then draws himself back and takes in several breaths. ‘And therefore, Miss – Billie my dear, I must ask that your guardians come to this office at their earliest convenience, so that I may speak with them.’
Their convenience is two days later; Meg cannot just absent herself from the kitchen. She and Alf now perch on the stiff office chairs and look about the room lined with dark leather tomes. She cannot imagine how Billie endures such an environ
ment, although no doubt she is not just stuck in this office, but running errands elsewhere.
Mr James Ogilvy is now speaking. ‘My dear Mr and Mrs Maguire, it is my difficult duty to administer the will of Mr Edwin Northey.’ He pauses while Meg struggles to control her spilling eyes. ‘It is usual for all the interested parties to be called together for this occasion, but not today. It has been decided – that is, I did not wish to bring Miss Billie into the picture quite yet. But please don’t be alarmed. My purpose here today is to advise you that Mr Edwin Northey – ’ he inhales deeply ‘ – having inherited his late father’s estate, which includes his Dunedin homestead and a substantial amount of other interests, did revise his situation before his departure last summer.’
The Maguires are still perplexed.
‘Therefore, upon his tragic death, I am in the process of executing the above-mentioned will. I shall not go into details that do not concern you in the matter, only what does concern you. It is my duty today to advise you, Mr and Mrs Maguire, that you are to be bequeathed five thousand pounds, with the recommendation that you might purchase a property in your own name.’
Meg is without speech. Alf shakes his head slowly. The room is silent, and as sunlight strikes dust motes that drift within the whirls of cigar smoke, they seek each other’s hands. This is surely nonsense – they must have heard wrong. Twice they beg Mr Ogilvy to repeat himself. It takes some time for his words to penetrate. Five thousand pounds is a fortune – my Lord, it is ten times the value of their dear little home that burned to the ground. It is surely more like the cost of a large property on the Rise!
Meg finally finds her voice. ‘Five thousand pounds? Oh, my heavens, whatever for? Perhaps it is to be divided in three, against Alf, myself and Billie? But whatever would we do with such an amount? Of course we might buy a cottage but why – ?’
‘Mrs Maguire, there is no stipulation for you to buy a property if you do not wish. There is no stipulation at all, only the suggestion that you might wish to settle down in your own home at some future time. Also, there are no instructions for the bequest to be divided into three.’
‘Pinch me, Alf – I must be having a dream!’ whispers Meg. ‘I cannot comprehend this – only that if I wake and it is not a dream – ’
Billie, they silently agree with their eyes.
‘It is on behalf of Billie, is it not?’ Meg offers and Alf nods. ‘And we shall indeed be grateful that we can provide for her into the future!’
‘Billie,’ states James Ogilvy, ‘does not feature in this equation.’
The Maguires cannot take it in. On the one hand, Mr Edwin Northey has decided to bequeath them an enormous amount of money. On the other hand, it is evidently not to be used for Billie. They do not understand.
‘No, my dear Mr and Mrs Maguire, your ward is to inherit in her own right. According to the dictates of the will, Miss Billie Frost is, in the first instance, to retain the scholarship funds for her continuing education. And in the second instance, she will have access to another inheritance when she turns twenty years of age.’
‘Turns twenty? Access to an inheritance?’ Meg is further confounded.
‘Indeed, turns twenty. The first of September 1858 was established to be the day of her birth. Therefore, on the first of September 1878 when she reaches her majority, Miss Frost will inherit investments to the sum of fifty thousand pounds.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
April 1873
Billie tries to focus on her school studies They are in danger of boring her to death these days; it is only the challenge of a correct answer that drives her. Thank goodness she will finish sixth form at the end of the year and leave Girls’ High. Most lessons are easy and she tries to look interested while the teacher taps at the blackboard. She can comprehend well ahead of the instruction and has marked time so often that she has recently been advanced to the upper form despite being two years younger than most students. She could go on to university to study something more challenging, but she isn’t a boy so that isn’t possible. Perhaps she could be a student teacher for Miss Clayton, which she can do when she turns sixteen, although that doesn’t really appeal much.
She trudges up the hill to school without engagement, and later scuffs slowly to Ogilvys. She is often quite out of temper. She regains better spirits, then a clutch of sadness envelops her and she fights an acute sense of loss.
So many months after Mr Northey’s death, it all seems surreal. He has left her a continuing education plan, but the excitement of education has waned. She just wants his dear self to return. Mr Edwin is – was – not family as such, but was such a familiar figure these past six years. He is – was – like an uncle to her.
Tonight she is reading quietly in her corner of the Abbeyleix kitchen, warm and cosy with good illumination from the paraffin lamps. Autumn’s sting has set in, so kitchen reading is her regular enjoyment of an evening. She stretches and decides to sing, as she did when she lay with Mungo beside Mama. She loves the swooping melody of The Gypsy Girl’s Dream and her husky voice begins:
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side –
How silly!
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches all too great to count, could boast
Of a high ancestral name –
‘Sillier still,’ she sighs, but continues at random, caressing the lilting notes in her off-key way.
I dreamed that … knights upon bended knee …
… pledged their faith to me …
I also dreamed which charmed me most,
That you lov’d me still the same,
That you lov’d me …
She just cannot concentrate on her reading. Her drawing tablet and basket of trims might be the thing. She still loves fabric and textiles and can draw fashions by the hour. This atones for her bumbling sewing and skew-whiff prototypes that Mrs Ivimey transforms like magic.
She is happier now, immersed in the feel of a small strip of fur – how soft and warm it is, how comforting.
But I also dreamed –
A loud rapping brings Billie back to her senses. She opens the kitchen door to Robbie Macandrew. He has recently left his Portobello home to be closer to the university and has digs in northern Castle Street. He is tall and lean, the quiet boy having given way to the assured authority of a young man.
‘What are you doing skulking around out there, Mr Macandrew? Roamin’ in the gloamin’?’
‘Lassie, the Lights – they’re playing up the sky tonight!’
‘Yes, I have heard as much, and beautiful by all accounts.’
‘And I have come – well, I was nearby – and here I am to show you them!’
‘Mister Macandrew, you cool liar – “nearby” phooey! It is a good half hour’s walk from the varsity.’ Billie turns away and pinches her cheeks for a little colour.
‘So what? I happened to be halfway – all right then, I just thought I should come and discuss them with you, after an absence of two years, and now they are playing! The magical Aurora Australis awaits your inspection!’
Billie sulks. ‘But I can see the glow from here. And it’s not magic as well you know – it’s just a magnetic force disturbed by solar wind.’
‘Pardon me, what a spoilsport! I’ve come all this way – but I did so want to share the Lights with you Frostie, and I know you enjoy staring at the night sky! Come on, you can see it so much better further up and I promise you it will be superb. Or – ’ he pulls an exaggeratedly sad face ‘– shall we just stop here and play a boring game of dominos?’
‘Don’t mind what I do.’
‘Well, well. I don’t believe I’ve seen you without gumption. I’ve not seen that defeatist attitude in you before.’
‘Defeatist – never!’ retaliates Billie. ‘All right, you monster, you shall not win, even if you think you have! I’ll come!’
&n
bsp; Billie knows her behaviour is mischievous. When did she start to pout, and show off, and toss her hair? Why is she pretending to hitch up her stocking at this moment? After a little more posturing as she wraps up for the cold, they both head out onto the street. ‘Brrr, it’s so braw!’ she shivers and Robbie mocks himself: ‘Aye, a braw bricht moonit nich t’nich! So let’s get wurum by spruntin’ up yon brae to get a better leuk.’
‘No, no, let’s just – ’
‘Och, dinna fesh, womun! No – ’ he reverts to his flattened dialect ‘– the street around here is awash with the dregs. Not you, Frostie, just the clientele! Come on, let’s climb on past the muck and slesh and see the Lights more clearly further up! That’s the spirit, lassie,’ smiles Robbie as he adjusts her thick tweed cloak.
‘And please,’ he pleads as Billie executes a clumsy whirl, ‘don’t walk backwards like a ninny and fall into potholes – please just move forward like a normal person, and don’t look back until I say so. Come away up!’
Dodging the ruts, endeavouring to ensure safe footing in the dark, they clamber up the Maclaggan Street gully and through Serpentine Avenue. It is hard work and just as Billie gasps that she is quite out of breath, they arrive at the Canongate junction. There are no gaslights up here; the night air is clear and crisp. The gully’s sides have blocked a good part of the northern sky and they have avoided looking south.
Until this moment, when she turns at Robbie’s command.
All pretence drops away. ‘Oh! How wondrous! Not just the glow, but all the colours, even reflecting in the harbour – and all the ships outlined! I have seen the Lights often, but never so clearly and vibrant as this. Such a splendid sight – yes, it is like magic. You have convinced me. Pinks and blues! Blues and greens and oranges – oh, it’s gone, but wait! There’s a bright purple – and now it’s green again, Robbie! Such a brilliant green!’
‘Emerald,’ claims Robbie.
