Jamie looked doubtful. ‘A room?’ he muttered. He thought for a moment. ‘There’s my m . . . m . . . mother’s house,’ he said.
‘You think I could stay there?’ asked Tom hopefully.
Jamie shook his head. ‘She doesn’t even let m . . .
m . . . me stay there,’ he admitted. ‘I wouldn’t stay there.’ He rubbed his bottom with one hand. ‘She’s
t . . . too fond of the strap. She beat me once for eating bread.’
‘She beat you for eating a slice of bread?’ cried Tom, horrified.
‘Ah, no. It was the whole loaf,’ admitted Jamie. ‘And then I accidentally knocked over a cupboard full of ch . . . ch . . . china.’
‘So where do you stay?’ Tom asked him.
Jamie waved a hand around. ‘I know some g . . . good places,’ he said. ‘Out of the wind. S . . . s . . . safe places.’
Tom frowned. ‘That’s not the way I roll,’ he said.
‘Huh?’
‘I mean . . . I like a roof over my head, you know? Walls around me.’ He reached a hand into his pocket where his holiday money was stored, all twenty pounds of it. ‘I can pay,’ he added. He’d get around the problem of currency later. He’d managed to bribe a coachman in the seventeenth century with a five-pound note, simply by telling him it was English money. Which hadn’t exactly been a lie.
Jamie pondered the matter for a moment and then he smiled.
‘I’ll take you to someone who m . . . might be able to help you,’ he said. ‘She’s my f . . . f . . . friend.’
Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Your girl friend?’ he ventured.
Jamie’s face reddened. ‘Wheesht!’ he said. ‘Not at all. Just a g . . . good friend. Come on, follow me.’
He turned and began to hobble back in the direction from which they’d come. Tom gazed after him for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders, deciding that at this stage in the game he had nothing much to lose. So he followed Jamie back along the street and down the long flight of steps. When they reached the bottom, instead of crossing the narrow road and going back into the dead end full of rubbish, Jamie turned right and led Tom through a brick archway where a grubby metal sign announced that they were now entering Tanner’s Close.
Four
Tom followed Jamie into the close. It was narrow and gloomy, but it wasn’t anything like as crowded as Mary King’s Close had been and there wasn’t the same network of wooden staircases on the outside of the tenements, linking the different floors to each other. Tom got the impression that, in the hundred and eighty five years that had passed since his last visit, attempts had been made to clean things up a bit. There were no pigs being butchered in the street, no barbers shaving their customers, and best of all, there was no longer an open sewer running down the middle of the street. All things to be grateful for. At the same time, he had to admit that the residents of this area seemed to be living far closer to each other than might be considered healthy.
As he walked along, he was aware of eyes examining him as he passed by, drawn no doubt to his casual clothes. Last time he’d ventured into the past he’d been dressed in his school uniform, which for some reason didn’t seem to have attracted anything like as much attention. But now, as he wandered along the street, people were staring at him as though he was some kind of travelling exhibition and he felt like telling them to mind their own business. It soon became clear that nearly everybody on the close knew Jamie. He was greeted by everyone they passed, either with good-natured hellos or, as in the case of a gang of rough-looking teenage boys they chanced upon, a series of cruel insults, the gist of which seemed to be that Jamie was ‘gone in the heed’ and needed locking up. Tom glared at the boys and they moved on without causing any more trouble.
‘Why do you let them talk to you like that?’ Tom asked Jamie, and he just grinned.
‘P . . . p . . . people who don’t know me, say
b . . . bad things,’ he observed. ‘It’s b . . . because they’re afraid that what I have might be c . . . c . . . catching.’
‘They’re just bullies,’ said Tom, remembering something that Shona Grierson had once said to him. ‘Stand up to them and they melt away like snowflakes in a microwave.’
‘Oh aye,’ said Jamie. ‘True enough.’ He thought for a moment. ‘What’s a m . . . m . . . m . . .?’
‘Never mind,’ said Tom. ‘Where are we going, exactly?’
‘We aren’t going anywhere,’ said Jamie.
Tom stared at him. ‘How come?’
‘Because we’re already here.’ Jamie indicated a doorway to his left. ‘This is where my friends the
M . . . McCallums live.’ He looked at Tom. ‘Do you know the McCallums?’ he asked. ‘Nicest family on
T . . . Tanner’s Close.’
‘I don’t know anyone in Edinburgh,’ said Tom with absolute certainty. ‘I used to know a few people but . . .
that was years ago. I don’t think they’ll be around any more.’
Jamie nodded as though he understood. He reached out a hand to a heavy doorknocker and rapped it several times. They waited for a few moments until the door opened and a woman looked out, a plump but pretty woman with shoulder length auburn hair and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She smiled when she saw Jamie standing there.
‘Well, well, wasn’t I just thinking that it’s been a while since we had a visit from Master Jamie?’ she said. ‘How have you been keeping?’ She looked down disapprovingly. ‘Still no shoes on those feet, I notice.’
‘Oh, you know I d . . . don’t like to wear shoes,’ said Jamie.
‘But this late summer isn’t going to last forever,’ she warned him. ‘And then what will you do?’ The woman’s gaze flicked onto Tom and her blue eyes studied him with interest. The warm smile never faltered. ‘And who is this with you?’ she murmured. ‘A new face, I think.’
‘This is my friend, T . . . Tom,’ announced Jamie, proudly. ‘Some children were b . . . bothering me and Tom chased them off.’
‘Did he now?’ The woman seemed delighted at this news. ‘Well, any friend of Master Jamie’s is a friend of the McCallums. He’s no kin to us, you understand, but we like to look out for him.’ She extended a plump hand and shook Tom’s hand ‘I’m Mary McCallum and I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘Er . . . yeah, cool,’ said Tom. ‘Hiya.’
‘Well, don’t be standing there on the step, come along inside the pair of ye. You’ll be staying for something to eat, I’ve no doubt?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Tom eagerly, realising how hungry he was. He and Jamie stepped into a narrow hallway.
‘Good. It’ll no’ be much, but what we have, we’re happy to share. Jamie, the children are up in the attic. Perhaps you’d like to take your friend up there and introduce him?’
‘Of c . . . course, Mary. This way, Tom.’ Jamie led Tom towards a narrow flight of stairs, while Mary strolled through a doorway into what looked like a dimly-lit kitchen.
‘The McCallum’s have b . . . been awfully kind to me,’ said Jamie as they went up the steps. ‘Ever since me and my Ma went our s . . . separate ways, they’ve always looked out for me. They are my d . . . dearest friends in the whole world.’
They reached a rickety landing and walked along it. At the very end there was a short flight of wooden steps. Jamie climbed them and Tom followed. They went through an arched doorway into a small attic room, where a girl and a boy, were sitting side by side at a rough wooden table. The boy appeared to be carving a piece of wood with a small sharp knife and there was what looked like a large collection of tiny toy soldiers ranged on the table in front of him. The girl was writing something into a notebook using a simple quill pen and inkwell. She was around Tom’s age, he thought, tall and pretty with straight blonde hair and green eyes. He instantly knew that she must be Mary’s daughter, the likeness was so marked. She looked up as the newcomers entered and smiled enchantingly.
‘Look wh
o’s come to visit us, Fraser!’ she exclaimed.
The boy must have been several years older than her. He too resembled Mary, though the unruly mop of hair that hung to his shoulders was black and his eyes dark brown. He reluctantly tore his gaze from the piece of wood he was carving. His eyes registered Jamie and then flicked challengingly across to Tom.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he asked, bluntly and the girl threw him an outraged look.
‘Fraser, mind your manners!’ she cried. ‘In polite society you’re supposed to wait for the visitors to speak first.’
‘Oh, do excuse me!’ sneered Fraser.
Jamie took the hint. ‘T . . . Tom, may I introduce my friends Miss C . . . C . . . Catriona McCallum and her brother, Fraser.’ He went over to crouch beside Fraser and started examining some of the wooden soldiers.
‘Er . . . hi,’ said Tom, unsure of the right words to use in such a situation. ‘Tom Afflick. From . . . Manchester, UK. Er . . . Manchester, England.’
‘An Englishman!’ exclaimed Catriona excitedly. ‘How interesting. Perhaps you’ll be able to fill us in on all the latest English society gossip.’
Tom smiled helplessly. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ he advised her; and Catriona and Fraser exchanged puzzled glances.
‘Why would we do a thing like that?’ asked Fraser.
‘Er . . . never mind. It’s just an expression. A . . . Manchester expression.’
‘Excellent. I wooden ‘old yer breaf,’ repeated Catriona, trying to mimic Tom’s Mancunian tones. ‘That’s a new one.’ She turned to another page in her notebook and dipped her pen into the inkwell. ‘You don’t mind if I make a note of that, do you?’
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Er . . . why?’
Fraser rolled his eyes. ‘Catriona makes a note of everything she hears,’ he said, dismissively. ‘She has books full of useless information. Shelves of them.’
‘It’s not useless,’ Catriona informed him. ‘It’s fascinating.’ She smiled at Tom. ‘I collect unusual expressions.’
‘Oh, yeah? That’s cool,’ said Tom.
‘That’s . . . cool,’ murmured Catriona. And she wrote that down as well. Tom moved closer to the table to look over her shoulder. He saw that she had very neat handwriting, a far cry from the people he’d met last time around, none of whom could write anything more than their name.
‘You obviously go to school,’ he observed.
‘We used to go to the Sessional School on Market Street,’ said Catriona. ‘But it was terrible. There were six hundred children there, you couldna learn anything. So Da found us private tutors from the University. It costs a lot but he thinks it’s worth it.’
‘I suppose they call you Cat for short,’ said Tom.
Catriona looked up at him, puzzled. ‘No, they don’t,’ she said. ‘Why, should they?’
‘Umm . . . well, that’s defo what we’d call you in Manchester anyway.’
‘Cat,’ she murmured. ‘Yes, I rather like that. I think it’s very unusual.’ She looked at Fraser and Jamie. ‘From now on, that’s my name.’
‘Sounds ridiculous,’ said Fraser. ‘Why not go the whole way and call yourself ‘Dog?’
‘Or C . . . C . . . Cow!’ giggled Jamie.
‘Don’t be so silly,’ said Catriona. ‘It’s an English thing.’ She smiled up at Tom. ‘I wouldn’t expect those two to understand. Do you think it suits me, Tom?’
‘Er, yeah, it’s dead good.’
‘Dead good,’ murmured Cat and wrote that down.
Tom struggled to change the subject. He waved a hand at the rows of tiny soldiers standing in neatly ordered ranks. There must have been hundreds of them, all more or less identical. There were also little pots of paint, brushes, what looked like a collection of carving knives and some blocks of wood. ‘What’s with all the toy soldiers?’ he asked.
Fraser looked rather indignant at this description. ‘They’re not toys,’ he said. ‘They’re models. It’s a hobby of mine. I carve them.’
‘Wow. What, all of them?’
‘Not quite all.’ Fraser indicated a section of perhaps twenty or so tiny soldiers to his left, standing proudly to attention; each of them carrying a tiny wooden gun. They looked a little more knocked about than their companions, the paint scratched and weathered as if by the passing of time. ‘These wee fellows belonged to my great grandfather, Angus. They were sent with his belongings from Culloden and handed down to me.’
‘Culloden.’ Tom frowned. ‘I don’t think I know that. Is it near Edinburgh?’
Catriona giggled. ‘He means the battle of Culloden, silly! Great grandfather Angus was a Jacobite.’
‘Was he?’ Tom tried to look impressed, but would have been the first to admit that his knowledge of Scottish history was scant to say the least. ‘Is that like a . . . vegetarian thing?’
Now Fraser looked horrified. ‘The Jacobites supported Charles Stuart,’ he said. ‘They wanted to put him back on the throne of England. I should have thought you’d know that.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Tom. ‘That’s right, I remember now.’ He didn’t really, but it seemed like the best thing to say.
Fraser pointed to a larger section of tiny troops. ‘These ones I’ve carved and painted myself,’ he said with evident pride. ‘It’s interesting that you said you’re from Manchester. A small number of troops that fought at Culloden on the Jacobite side were actually from a Manchester regiment.’
‘No way!’ said Tom, and noticed Cat wrote that down as well. He frowned, wondering what a future historian would make of the notebook if it were ever discovered. He pointed to a jumbled pile of little wooden figures at one end of the table, through which Jamie was now rooting eagerly.
‘What about these guys?’ he asked.
‘Them?’ Fraser looked rather less pleased with himself. ‘They’re just discards,’ he said. ‘Ones that didn’t turn out quite right.’ He lifted the hooked knife. ‘This is really a cobbler’s knife. Sometimes it slips and an arm comes off. Then you have to start all over again. I hate it when that happens.’
As Tom watched, Jamie picked up a tiny wooden figure from the pile. It was dressed in a crudely-made checked pattern suit. Tom experienced a sudden rush of recognition. He’d seen that figure before, perhaps only half an hour ago, stretched out in a little wooden coffin in the National Museum of Scotland. He couldn’t suppress a gasp of astonishment.
‘Wh . . . what’s the matter?’ asked Jamie.
‘Er . . . it’s just that one you’re holding,’ said Tom, pointing. ‘He’s . . . not wearing a . . . proper uniform.’
‘No, I made him that wee suit,’ said Cat gleefully. ‘I felt sorry for him.’ She glanced critically at her brother. ‘I wanted to make dresses for some of the others but Fraser wouldn’t allow it.’
‘I should think not!’ said Fraser. ‘They’re soldiers. What do you suppose great grandfather would say if he heard about such a thing?’
‘He’s still around is he?’ asked Tom.
‘No, of course he’s not around! He died at Culloden in 1746, massacred by the Duke of Cumberland along with the rest of his regiment.’ He looked at Tom warily. ‘You’ll have heard of Cumberland, I suppose?’
‘Er . . . yeah, is he the one who made the sausages?’
Jamie laughed. ‘He c . . . c . . . certainly made sausages out of the J . . . Jacobites!’ he said and Fraser gave him a stern look.
‘That’s no’ funny,’ he said.
‘Oh, come along, Fraser, it was a long time ago,’ said Cat. ‘You carry on as though it only happened yesterday.’ She looked at Tom. ‘You’ll have to forgive him. He’s a wee bit obsessed with Culloden. I keep saying he’s made enough soldiers now and he should turn his skills to something new. But will he listen? Oh, no.’ She studied Tom for a moment. ‘So, what brings you to Edinburgh?’
‘The Virgin Pendolino,’ said Tom, without thinking and saw the girl’s eyebrows arch at his words. ‘Oh, that’s just a . . . a train,’ he sai
d.
‘A train? You mean, like a . . . railway train?’
‘Yeah, you know . . . I suppose yours are a bit different. Steam trains? Chuff chuffs?’ He made a few circular motions with his arms.
Fraser nodded. ‘I didn’t realise you could come so far by train,’ he said. ‘Slow, noisy things. A friend of mine went to Perth on one, but it took him hours and his clothes were all full of soot by the time he got there.’
‘Our trains are different. Quicker . . . well, most of the time anyway.’
‘Still, that’s a . . . t . . . terrible distance,’ observed Jaimie. ‘How long did it take to get here?’
‘Oh, hours,’ said Tom; and then, seeing their reactions, realised he must have got it wrong again. ‘A whole load of hours. Days worth of them, in fact. Yeah, now I think about it, it must have taken one . . . two, maybe three days?’
They looked impressed. ‘The world’s a smaller place,’ observed Cat. ‘Imagine such speed.’
Tom wondered what they’d think if he told them the truth. The train he’d taken had got him from Manchester Piccadilly to Edinburgh Waverley station in a cool three hours and fifteen minutes.
‘I’d love to visit England,’ said Cat wistfully. ‘The furthest we’ve ever travelled is to Glasgow and that was for a funeral. What’s the furthest you’ve ever travelled Tom?’
Good question. Tom considered offering an answer of ‘three hundred and sixty years’ but decided against it.
‘Tom’s l . . . looking for somewhere to s . . . stay,’ said Jamie.
‘Well he can’t stay here,’ said Fraser, bluntly.
Cat looked at him. ‘Fraser, don’t be rude!’
‘I’m not being rude. We haven’t the room. And even if we had, you know Da wouldn’t allow it.’ He looked at Tom. ‘Da is very strict. We daren’t even tell him that Jamie comes here sometimes. He wouldnae approve.’
‘What does your dad do?’ asked Tom.
‘Oh, he’s a saw maker,’ said Cat. ‘It’s quite skilled work and everyone says he’s the best in Edinburgh. But he doesn’t know that Jamie comes here and that we feed him sometimes. It’s a wee secret.’
Seventeen Coffins Page 3
