Mistress of Green Tree Mill
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Copyright
To the memory of my grandmother, Lizzie Mudie: d. 1939
Chapter 1
The wind howled in from the North Sea as if an army of screaming witches rode its tail. Carried on it were needles of freezing rain that cut into the skin of anyone foolhardy enough to brave the elements that December night in 1879. The river Tay foamed and coiled angrily, frustrated by the thick stone walls of the Esplanade in its efforts to break through and engulf the town of Dundee. Waves battered at the shore, throwing high sheets of ghostlike spray. In the east, where the estuary met the incoming tide, a sinister black and boiling eddy threatened to suck ships to their death – but none ventured out that night and seamen huddled in port-side bars listening to the screaming gale, grateful to be safe on land.
In the Vaults, rat-infested tenements in the centre of the town, families huddled together, fearful that the storm would lift off roofs, breach walls or smash windows. Children clung to mothers who flinched at each blast which swept round flimsy doors and filled the hovels with an icy chill.
Even in the comfortable turreted mansions of the men who owned the mills and factories in the city by the Tay, there were many furrowed brows. ‘There’ll be a fair amount of damage to repair when this blows itself out. How will that affect the profit margins?’ the magnates asked.
The Exchange Coffee House stood on a corner overlooking Dundee harbour. Normally very busy, tonight it was empty and only the storm raged its way through the swinging doors as David Mudie, tenant of the establishment, paused in his polishing of the brass-railed counter and raised his head to listen to the wind’s threats.
I hope Martha’s got the sense to stay in Newport and not come home in this, he thought. His worries were interrupted by the arrival of a brave patron, huddled in a thick coat and wiping his wet face with the end of a dripping scarf.
‘My word, David, what a storm! There’s chimneypots down all along the street. Oh, my, there’ll be some clearing up to do the morn.’ He spoke with the cheerfulness of someone who had nothing to lose in the holocaust as he sank his moustache into one of David’s steaming cups of coffee.
* * *
Two children in their nightclothes stood close together at the bay window of the flat above David Mudie’s head. His daughter Lizzie was six years old, a serious-looking child with curling brown hair, high cheekbones and slanting green eyes under heavy lids that made her look like a little Eskimo. Her arm was placed protectively around the shoulders of her brother Georgie, two years younger, who had the delicacy of a consumptive with pale anxious eyes, blond hair and translucent skin that should have belonged to a pretty girl. Georgie’s fragility was a cause of concern to his family for every winter he was plagued with a hacking cough. No one worried more about him than his sister who cuddled him to her now as if trying to protect him from the storm. Lizzie was as strong as a little pony; as loving as a devoted mother; resilient and reliable; eager to grow up and help her parents, whom she adored.
She and Georgie stared round-eyed at the masts of the tall ships moored in the dock below the flat. They creaked and bent like beleaguered trees beneath the tearing gale. When the children saw this, they shuddered and said ‘Oooooh’. When sheets of rain flooded over their window glass, they screamed in delighted unison and clutched each other. When, with an almighty crash, a chimneypot from next door smashed on the pavement they clung even more tightly but they were not really frightened, more energized and thrilled by the drama of it all. Being children, they had no notion that the storm might threaten their own lives.
Their delight was interrupted by an angry voice. ‘It’s past your bedtime. What’re you doing still up? Your ma’ll gie me a telling off when she comes home.’
The wee maidservant came bursting into the room and Lizzie pulled a face at her. Maggy Davidson was the eldest child of a poor family from the Vaults and, though she was only eleven years old, represented higher authority. Lizzie resented her, for she felt more than capable of looking after herself and Georgie. She could look after slow-witted Maggy as well, come to that.
Maggy had been given a job by the children’s mother Martha through pity. The girl washed dishes in the coffee house and helped with the children, and the little money she earned was taken home to her widowed mother and three other children in their single room in one of the most crowded tenements of the Vaults. The Davidsons’ building was called the Castle and the tenants shared it with rats as big as cats. Going with Maggy to visit her family made Lizzie’s flesh creep with a fear that she took care to conceal.
Maggy’s face was red and she looked as if she was afraid. She caught Lizzie and Georgie in her arms, cuddling them close, and said, ‘Go to bed, bairns. Your mother’ll be home in a wee while. She’ll not be pleased if you’re still up.’
Lizzie fought away from the embrace. ‘Now, don’t be silly, Maggy. The storm won’t hurt us. Go back downstairs. We’ll go to bed on our own. I’ll help Georgie.’
But though she was trying to seem grown up and brave, the yelling of the wind did frighten her a little. Suddenly it made her feel small and vulnerable. Taking George’s handy she said, ‘I wish Mammy would come home,’ and together they climbed into the big, cosy bed they shared in the back bedroom.
* * *
‘You’re not thinking of going out in that?’ There was a note of disbelief in Bella Simpson’s voice as she turned from the window and pushed her cousin Martha back down in her chair by the fireside.
Plump, rosy-cheeked Martha pulled a face and said, ‘I’ve got to. The bairns are waiting for me. Besides, it’s only three days till Auld Year’s Night and there’s a lot to be done. Davie likes celebrating the New Year.’ As she spoke she was drawing on her gloves and pulling the fur tippet closer round her neck. It was obvious she meant to leave.
‘But it’s the worst storm for years. It’s howling a gale out there. You’ll be drenched to the skin just walking to the station. Stay here tonight and go over tomorrow. I’ll make you a put-up on the floor beside Ma’s bed.’ Bella was genuinely alarmed at the thought of her cousin battling through the tearing weather that threatened to engulf the cottage. But Martha’s eyes were fixed on the flickering lights of Dundee shining out from the opposite bank of the river.
‘I’ve got to go. It’s not far to the station. I’ll run all the way and stay under cover till the train comes.’
There was no use arguing with her. Even if the skies were to split open Martha Mudie would try to go home. Anxiously Bella fussed around, buttoning up Martha’s jacket and smoothing its collar. The material was good but thin.
‘You’ll catch your death in that.
At least let me lend you a thicker coat. Take this old one of Father’s. It’s been hanging up here since he died. When you get to the station give it to the ticket collector and I’ll fetch it back from him tomorrow.’ Bella hauled a grey overcoat down from its peg on the door.
‘You’re such a fuss! I’ll look like a scarecrow in that. But, all right, don’t worry, I’ll put it on. The rain is terrible.’
Martha struggled her arms into the heavy coat and the cousins both laughed when she stood with the hem sweeping to the ground and the sleeves dangling over her hands. ‘It’ll keep me dry all right. The rain won’t get at me now,’ Martha giggled, bending forward and giving her cousin a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry, but you know how it is… if Auntie Jean wakes up again give her my love.’
‘I don’t think you’ll be seeing Ma again in life,’ said Bella sadly and they turned to gaze at the bed in the recess beside the fire where an old woman, her skin as wrinkled and yellow as a dried-up lemon, lay unconscious. Her mouth was open and her breathing rasped painfully in the room.
Martha’s face was soft as she took Bella’s hand. ‘Don’t cry. She’s an old woman and she’s had a good life,’ she said consolingly.
Then she stepped out into the cruel night and a blast of wind nearly threw her back into the room. On the doorstep she reeled, grabbing at the lintel to keep herself upright, and her resolution faltered until she remembered her bairns. I must get home to them. Even Lizzie’ll be scared by this awful storm, she told herself.
It was less than a quarter of a mile to Newport station but by the time she was halfway there, she knew that she should have waited till the morning. The relentless rain penetrated the thick fustian coat and weighed her down. She was soon soaked through, even her underclothes were clinging wetly. Her face felt flayed and it was difficult to breathe with the gale driving each gasp back into her lungs. As she struggled along, a vicious gust whipped away her carefully pinned hat and straggles of long hair like wet, grasping hands were plastered over her cheeks and eyelids, half blinding her. Panic-stricken for a moment, she tried to push them back but her hands were powerless. The saturated leather of her gloves had stuck her fingers together.
Teeth chattering she shrank back against a house wall, holding on to a stranger’s door handle to avoid being blown off her feet. She was on the point of giving up when she saw a glimmer of light ahead. ‘Thank God, it’s the station at last! Only a few more yards and I’m there. Only a few more yards and I’ll have shelter from this awful wind… only a few more yards,’ she gasped painfully, fighting her way forward, driving herself on with the thought of her children. Poor little lambs, they’d be worried about her.
Hand over hand, like a sailor on a heaving deck, she hauled herself up the metal stairs and along the platform to a welcoming light in the waiting room. Exhausted, she wrenched at the door, twisting the handle with powerless hands, but it refused to yield so she kicked frantically at the panels with her booted feet. The door swung open to reveal the angry face of Peter Wright, the ticket collector whom she’d known all her life.
At first he did not recognize the figure in the immense coat and was about to admonish her for making an assault on a station door but she brushed past him, threw back her collar and rushed towards the welcoming flames of the fire, holding out her freezing hands to the warmth.
Peter’s anger disappeared. He was fond of Martha. ‘Oh, it’s you, lassie! My word, you look a sight and you’re aye that smart. What are you doing out on a night like this? Though it’s a Sunday it’s no’ a night for Christians.’
‘I came over to see my Auntie Jean,’ she gasped.
Peter knew everybody’s news and loved gossip so he assumed his most solemn face and said in a questioning tone, ‘She’s no’ long to go, they say…’
Martha nodded as she struggled out of the soaking coat. ‘She’s dying, poor soul, I’ll not see her again I doubt. But I must get home tonight. Is the train running?’
Peter, a company man to the backbone, was surprised by any suggestion that a bit of wind and rain would disrupt the North British Railway service.
‘Of course. There’s two folk here waiting for it. The engine coming in from Edinburgh’s only five minutes late.’ As she handed him the overcoat with Bella’s instructions, a faint whistle was heard over the screeching of the wind and Peter said triumphantly, ‘There’s the train noo.’
The other two people in the shadowy waiting room looked distinctly nervous. One, a well-dressed girl of about eighteen, was visibly shaking and quite unconscious of the admiring glances cast at her by a young man in fashionable, dandified clothes who was sitting on the edge of his seat with a portmanteau at his feet. When the train whistle was heard, he asked the question that was in all their minds: ‘Are you sure it’s safe to cross the bridge tonight?’
Peter soothed their nerves with ‘What sort of question’s that? The bridge is a miracle of modern engineering. Queen Victoria herself said as much when she opened it last year. You’ll be as safe on it as if you were in your own beds at home!’
The train drew up outside the window. The high, black, brass-bound engine breathing out clouds of steam looked like a harnessed dragon and its very bulk was reassuring as Peter, in high dudgeon, ushered them all into one carriage and slammed the door. Everything was normal. Deep cushioned seats awaited them and Martha settled back into hers with a sense of profound relief. Inside was warm and dry, almost cosy in the light of a flickering paraffin lamp which made the nervous girl’s face look as sweet and ethereal as an angel’s. But she was still very frightened and leaned across from the opposite seat to speak to Martha.
‘Please don’t think I’m silly but could I sit beside you and hold your hand? Crossing the bridge always makes me nervous even in the best of weather. My mother hates it too. The last time she crossed they had to lock her carriage door to stop her trying to get out. Aren’t we silly?’
Martha smiled reassuringly and pulled her wet skirts back from the seat at her side, saying, ‘I’d be glad of your company. It’s a terrible night.’ The girl slipped across and put her gloved hand into Martha’s.
The young man, assuming an air of great confidence, smiled benevolently at them and pulled a heavy gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket. Consulting its face with a man of the world air, he said in a well-bred voice, ‘It’s just past seven o’clock. We’ll be in Dundee before half past. You’ll be in your own homes by eight if you haven’t too far to go.’
Martha nodded. ‘I’ve not far to go. But what about you? Do you live near?’ Her companions’ answers were lost as they were jolted back in their seats by the train starting up. With a clatter and a rattle, the pistons began toiling beneath their feet and the three strangers smiled at each other in relief. Thank God, we’re on the way at last, was the thought they shared.
To distract them from the storm, the young man started to talk gaily. ‘It’s grand to be going home to Dundee. I’ve come all the way from Paris. I’ve been over there for a year. My family live in the Perth Road. They’re not expecting me and I want to give them a surprise. I’ll be with them for Hogmanay.’
‘That’ll be lovely,’ said the girl, forgetting some of her terror. Then she smiled at her fellow travellers and said, ‘Hogmanay’s important for me too – I’m getting married that day!’
Martha, who loved her dashing David to distraction and truly believed that a woman’s wedding day was the peak of her existence, squeezed the girl’s hand and said with feeling, ‘Oh, that’s splendid. I wish you and your fiancé the best of luck. Sit back and don’t worry, my dear, we’re nearly home. Look, we’re going on to the bridge.’
They stared out of the window at the flickering lamps of the station. Behind them on the platform, Peter waved his flag and watched with pride as the train pulled away. Like a racehorse at the starting line, it paused hissing and steaming beside the red signal that marked the start of the Tay Bridge. At all the carriage windows faces were turned to watch the signa
l change to green. Then, with a great shudder, the engine nosed its way on to the bridge.
The storm was waiting. It screamed up howling, rocking the carriages about like toys. Inside the flimsy walls, the passengers clung together or tried to look unconcerned though expressions faltered as the train swayed like a ship at sea. It was impossible to carry on conversation because voices were drowned out by the wind. Fusillades of rain dashed against the window with such force that it seemed the glass would shatter.
Martha held the frightened girl’s hand tighter, leaned sideways and shouted reassuringly into her ear, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be all right.’ As she spoke she saw from the corner of her eye the lights at the end of the bridge disappearing and the dark outlines of girders looming outside the window. The train driver’s taking his time. He’s being very careful, she told herself, and her racing heart slowed down a little. Surely he would never risk going on to the bridge if there was the least danger? As they gradually speeded up, she sensed that he was gathering confidence and with a sigh of relief she relaxed, her ears full of the consolingly familiar click, clack, clunk of iron wheels rolling over the rails.
Try as hard as she could however it was impossible not to remember that they were being carried over a raging river on a ninety-foot-high bridge made of metal spars and rivets. When the bridge was opened she had read lots of things about it in the Courier newspaper, and wished she could remember the details. How many tons of steel were in the girders? How many spans did it have? Figures flashed into her mind – the bridge had 85 spans and was 3450 yards long. As she remembered that she was also reassured by recollection of the builder’s confidence that his bridge could stand up to the most ferocious weather. She tried to be brave but, deafened and rocked about, she was acutely conscious of every one of the yards of rail passing beneath her.
Her own anxiety was forgotten however when she saw that the girl’s face was tight with fear, the ashen pale skin glistening with sweat. Martha put an arm around her shoulder and spoke loudly into her ear. ‘Tell me about your wedding. Where’s it to be held?’
Mistress of Green Tree Mill Page 1
