Seventeen Coffins

by Philip Caveney

  ‘Right.’ Tom looked thoughtfully at the pile of discards on the table. ‘Do you guys ever get up to Arthur’s Seat?’ he asked.

  ‘Sometimes in the summer,’ said Cat. ‘When the weather’s nice, we take a picnic up there. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, I just . . . wondered if you ever went there. And . . . did you ever think about making little coffins for these leftover soldiers?’

  Fraser gave him a disapproving look. ‘What an odd idea,’ he said. ‘Why would I want to do a thing like that?’

  Just then they heard Mary calling from downstairs.

  ‘Supper,’ said Cat, closing her notebook. ‘Come along, Tom. Let’s see what we’ve got to eat today.’

  And they made their way downstairs.

  Five

  It was a simple meal. A wooden table in the cramped kitchen had been set for five. There were thick slices of homemade bread, butter and a big black pan of what looked like vegetable stew. Tom was very hungry now and grateful for whatever he was offered. They took their seats and watched as Mary ladled helpings of the thick, steaming stew into earthenware bowls. Tom reached eagerly for his spoon and was about to make a start when he realised that everybody had bowed their heads and were looking at their bowls in silence, so he set the spoon down again.

  ‘Perhaps our guest would be kind enough to say grace?’ suggested Mary.

  ‘Yes, let’s have a Manchester prayer!’ said Cat, excitedly.

  Tom thought for a moment. He wasn’t the world’s biggest churchgoer so he guessed he’d just have to improvise. ‘Umm . . . right,’ he said. ‘Sure. No problem. Er . . . thanks, oh Lord, for giving us this scran, which is . . . just exactly what the doctor ordered.’ There was an uncomfortable silence, so he added, ‘That’s it. We always keep it short in Manchester. So the . . . food doesn’t get cold.’

  ‘Amen,’ said everybody and reached for the spoons.

  ‘Tom was just telling us he came here by coach,’ said Cat, buttering a slice of bread. ‘It only took him three days to get here.’

  ‘Gracious,’ said Mary. ‘You came here with your parents, did you?’

  ‘Er . . . no,’ said Tom. ‘No, my dad put me on the

  tr . . . on the coach.’

  ‘You travelled alone?’ Mary seemed surprised. ‘Forgive me, but those highways are lawless places. Aren’t you a little young to be off on your own?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Tom. He took a mouthful of hot stew, which had a coarse, earthy flavour, but he’d eaten much worse on his last visit. ‘No, I’m used to it.’

  ‘And you have relatives here in Edinburgh?’

  ‘No, I . . . I’m all alone,’ admitted Tom. ‘I was supposed to be staying with my mum, but . . . well, I’m not sure what’s happened to her.’

  ‘He’s l . . . looking for a place to stay,’ said Jamie. ‘I said I’d t . . . try and help him. I thought m . . . maybe you might have some ideas.’

  ‘Goodness. That is a tall order.’ Mary thought for a moment. ‘What exactly has happened to your mother?’

  ‘I’ve kind of lost her. That happens sometimes. But I’m sure she’ll show up sooner or later. She usually does.’

  ‘Perhaps Tom should go to the constables,’ suggested Fraser. ‘Maybe they could help him find her?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for that,’ said Tom, hastily. ‘No, she’ll turn up. I just need somewhere to wait around for a while until she does.’

  ‘There is a lodging house on Tanner’s Close,’ admitted Mary. ‘Though I’m not sure it’s a suitable place for a young lad on his own.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jamie, excitedly. ‘I’d f . . . forgotten about that. I know somebody who l . . . lodges there! My friend B . . . Billy. I b . . . bet he’d keep an eye on you until your ma turns up.’

  ‘Billy?’ Tom looked at him. ‘Who’s Billy?’

  ‘Just a fellow I know,’ said Jamie. ‘Irish Billy, they call him. He’s a good sort. We’ll g . . . go and see him after we’ve eaten. You s . . . said you’ve got money, didn’t you?’

  Tom nodded. ‘English money.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll take any manner of currency in that place,’ said Mary. She sounded as though she didn’t really approve. ‘But you mark my words, Tom. You want to be careful out on those streets. There’s all kinds of rum things going on, out there. People being robbed . . . and worse.’

  ‘People disappearing,’ said Cat, in a melodramatic whisper.

  ‘Wheesht,’ said Mary.

  ‘It’s true,’ Cat assured her. She looked at Tom. ‘People are saying there’s a killer on the loose.’

  ‘Catriona!’ said Mary. ‘You’ll frighten the boy. Hasn’t he just told us his own poor mother is missing?’

  ‘Oh, no, not like that,’ Tom assured her. ‘I mean, I know that’s how it sounded, but . . . well, I’m not worried about anything happening to her here.’ He looked at Cat. ‘People disappearing?’ he prompted her.

  ‘I’m only saying what I’ve heard,’ insisted Cat. ‘And you have to admit, Mama, something strange is going on.’

  Mary gave Tom an encouraging smile. ‘There was an old lady called Effie,’ she said. ‘Pathetic thing, she was, used to go around trying to sell scraps of leather to earn a few pennies, you’d see her on the close most days of the week. Then suddenly, one day, she was gone. Nobody knows what happened to her. Seems to have just vanished into thin air.’

  Fraser smirked. ‘She was fond of the gin,’ he said. ‘Probably drank herself to death.’

  ‘I don’t know where you came by that information, Fraser McCallum, but I’d thank you not to be spreading gossip,’ said Mary. ‘In this house we speak well of people or we don’t say anything at all.’

  Fraser scowled. ‘It’s what everyone else is saying,’ he muttered. He dipped a hunk of bread into his bowl of stew and took a big bite. ‘Charlie Buchanan told me that she . . .’

  ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full,’ Mary chided him. ‘Charlie Buchanan! She thought for a moment. ‘Isn’t he the one who claimed that he had an imp in a bottle who could grant any wish in return for a penny? And correct me if I’m wrong, Fraser, but aren’t you one of the boys who fell for that nonsense?’

  Fraser reddened. ‘To be fair, I was only little at the time,’ he said.

  ‘Nevertheless, I would have thought it might serve as a warning to you to disregard anything that boy has to say.’ She sighed. ‘Effie was just a poor lost soul and her only crime was that she grew old, with no family to care for her. She’s not the only person to go missing either. All through the year, there’ve been people . . . the old, the weak, the homeless . . .’

  ‘Mama!’ said Cat sternly. ‘Tom’s homeless.’

  There was a brief silence while they all considered her words.

  ‘I wish he could stay with us,’ added Cat, wistfully.

  ‘You know he can’t,’ said Mary. She looked at Tom. ‘I’m sorry. I’d love to be able to say that we could put you up for a while, but . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said Tom. ‘Mr McCallum wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Ach, it’s not that he’s a mean man, you understand, but he came from a very poor family and he watches every penny. And of course, with the children’s education and everything, money is rather tight. If he even knew that Jamie ate here from time to time, he’d be far from happy.’ She glanced at Jamie. ‘Especially since he knows that Jamie has a loving mother not so very far from here.’

  Jamie grimaced. ‘If she l . . . loves me, she’s a funny way of showing it! That one’s far too f . . . fond of beating out a rhythm on my b . . . backside.’

  ‘I dare say you’ve pushed her into doing it,’ said Mary. ‘You’d try the patience of St Andrew himself, Jamie Wilson!’ She turned back to Tom. ‘So you see, I’m afraid I can’t offer you a place to stay, much as I’d like to.’

  ‘Don’t sweat it,’ said Tom.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’

  ‘That’ll be a Manchester expressi
on,’ said Cat, knowingly. ‘Tom’s teaching me them.’ She lowered her voice to a gruff approximation of Tom’s accent. ‘I wooden ‘old yer breaf,’ she said and smiled proudly.

  ‘I reckon Tom’s made a b . . . big impression on Catriona,’ observed Jamie.

  ‘It’s Cat,’ she reminded him. She looked at her Mother. ‘It’s what they’d call me in Manchester.’

  ‘Is it now?’ Mary smiled. ‘I’d say it suits you. I’ve always thought there’s something of the feline about you, with those green eyes.’

  ‘What would Ma’s name be shortened to?’ wondered Cat.

  ‘I’ve an Auntie Mary back home,’ said Tom. ‘Everyone calls her Mae.’

  Mary smiled. ‘Yes, I’ve heard that used. And Mollie, too, of course.’

  ‘That’s actually longer,’ observed Fraser. ‘What’s the point of a shortened name that has more letters in it?’

  It was a good question, which nobody seemed to have an answer for.

  Mary looked at Tom. ‘With regard to the lodging house, Tom, you must do as you think best until your mother arrives. But I’d be grateful if you’d call here from time to time. In the day. Just to let us know that everything’s all right with you and perhaps to have a wee bite to eat.’

  Tom smiled. He felt touched by her concern, a woman he’d only met a little while ago. ‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured her. ‘Really.’

  ‘But you will call in?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cat urged him. ‘You must. I need to learn more Manchester-talk.’ She indicated Tom’s T Shirt. ‘Mama, have you ever seen anything like that before?’

  ‘I must confess I haven’t,’ said Mary. ‘Is that what they wear in England, these days?’

  ‘Er . . . not everyone,’ said Tom.

  ‘It’s dead cool,’ said Cat, and Tom nearly choked on a piece of bread.

  ‘What?’ asked Cat. ‘Did I say it wrong?’

  ‘Er . . . no,’ spluttered Tom. ‘No, that’s . . . perfect.’ How could he tell her that it just seemed so weird coming from the lips of someone in the nineteenth century? He smiled at Cat. He was somewhat alarmed to note that he rather liked looking into her lovely green eyes. ‘You’re coming on a treat,’ he told her. ‘We’ll soon have you talking like a proper Manc.’

  ‘I don’t know what Professor Robertson would say if he heard you using words like that,’ said Mary.

  ‘He’s my tutor from the University,’ explained Cat. ‘And I think he’d be pleased. He told me that if you want to be a writer, you have to spread your net wide . . . take in as many life experiences as you can. Who knows? One day I might want to set a story in Manchester.’

  Fraser shook his head. ‘I keep telling you, sister, girls like you don’t stand a chance of becoming writers.’

  ‘Nonsense! What about Jane Austen? She was a woman and she published novels. And what about Mary Brunton? She’s from right here in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Aye, and she wasnae raised in a wee house on Tanner’s Close, neither. You have to be a member of the gentry to get anywhere in that world.’

  ‘It shouldn’t matter where you come from,’ argued Cat. ‘My words are as valuable as anybody’s.’ She looked to Tom. ‘Jane Austen was an English writer. Are there other women who are published in England?’

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. ‘Some,’ he admitted as through his head rampaged a series of female writers. J.K. Rowling, Jacqueline Wilson, Enid Blyton . . . Of course, he could hardly mention them, since they didn’t actually exist yet. ‘You should stick to your guns, Cat,’ he said. ‘There might not be all that many of you now, but trust me, there will be. One day, there’ll be lots of women writers.’

  Cat beamed at him, an act that made Tom feel strangely warm inside. Then she turned to her brother and stuck her tongue out at him.

  ‘Stop it, Catriona,’ said Mary. ‘The wind will change and you’ll be stuck like that forever.’

  They finished up the meal, mopping out their bowls with their last crusts of bread and then Mary made a big pot of tea and they sat around the table, chatting and laughing until Mary glanced at the clock on the wall and announced that her husband would be arriving back from work soon. Tom took this as an indication that it was time to leave and sure enough, Jamie stood up from the table and motioned towards the door.

  ‘We’d b . . . best get moving if we’re to s . . . sort you out a place for the night,’ he said. Tom nodded. He said goodbye to everyone and followed Jamie out to the hallway, but Cat insisted on walking out with him. Jamie opened the door to the street and stepped outside. Tom was surprised to see that it was already getting dark out there, the sun sinking below the roofs of the surrounding tenements. Tom hesitated a moment and turned back at the doorway to look at Cat.

  ‘It’s been nice to meet you,’ he said and he reached out to shake her hand.

  ‘It’s been dead cool,’ she told him, leaning forward impulsively and kissing him on the cheek. He stood, aware that he was reddening, but he couldn’t deny how good it had felt. ‘Now don’t forget,’ she urged him. ‘You’re to call back soon and tell us how you’re getting on.’

  ‘I will,’ he assured her. He turned away and stepped out onto the street, pulling the door closed behind him. Jamie was waiting for him with a knowing smile on his face.

  ‘I don’t w . . . want to hurry you,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, that’s ok.’

  ‘D . . . didn’t I tell you the McCallums were a n . . . n . . . nice family?’

  ‘You did,’ admitted Tom. ‘And they are.’

  ‘Particularly C . . . C . . . Catriona?’ observed Jamie.

  ‘It’s Cat,’ Tom corrected him. They headed off along the darkening street and despite the gathering chill of evening, Tom felt a warm glow that stayed with him for quite a distance.

  Six

  ‘This is the p . . . p . . . place,’ announced Jamie.

  Tom had to admit that it didn’t look very promising – a shabby, tumbledown building of grey stone, rearing up on the crowded side street ahead of them and surrounded on all sides by other equally shabby dwellings. Three steps led up to a ramshackle door affixed to a kind of porch on the side of the building and it was impossible to get an idea of how big the place actually was inside. Above the door, a crudely-made painted sign announced that this was Laird’s Lodging House: Proprietor Mrs M. Laird.

  Jamie climbed the steps and hammered on the wooden door with his fist, the sound seemed to reverberate throughout the whole building. They waited in silence for a moment and then the door creaked open and a woman peered out at them, a heavyset middle aged woman wearing an odd frilly bonnet that did nothing to soften the severity of her features. She had dark, piercing eyes, emphasised by thin black brows and the expression on her face suggested that she had just encountered a bad smell. She took in Jamie at a glance and then her steely gaze flicked across to Tom. Her eyebrows arched in surprise and Tom reminded himself that this was probably because his clothes looked so out of place. Her mouth twisted into a sneer and she turned her unwelcoming stare back to Jamie.

  ‘What do you want?’ she growled, making no attempt at a smile. ‘If you’re selling something, we don’t want it and if you’ve come to beg, you’ll be sorely disappointed.’ She had an Irish accent. Northern Irish, Tom thought, though he was no expert.

  Jamie tried to smile. ‘H . . . hello Margaret,’ he said. ‘H . . . how are you today?’

  ‘Never mind the pleasantries! I asked you what you wanted.’

  ‘Er . . . I was j . . . just wondering if I could speak to B . . . B . . . Billy,’ said Jamie. ‘If he’s around.’

  The woman looked annoyed. ‘Oh aye, he’s around, all right,’ she admitted. ‘Laying around, talking the hind legs off anyone who’ll listen. What’s this concerning?’

  ‘Er . . . I’d . . . r . . . rather talk to Billy,’ insisted Jamie.

  Margaret scowled, as though considering throwing him down the steps. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll go and see if he
wants to speak to you.’ Jamie made to take a step into the building, but she placed a meaty hand on his chest, stopping him in his tracks. ‘You wait here,’ she said and slammed the door in his face.

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘She seems a charmer,’ observed Tom. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘The l . . . l . . . landlady,’ said Jamie, forlornly. ‘Mrs Laird. I’m afraid she’s a bit of a r . . . r . . .’

  ‘Rat Bag?’ suggested Tom.

  ‘I was g . . . going to say, ‘rum character,’’ said Jamie. ‘But I think your description is b . . . b . . . better!’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know somewhere else I could stay?’ asked Tom, hopefully. If Margaret was any measure of the welcome he might expect here, it didn’t seem like he’d have an agreeable stay. ‘Is there like maybe a Travelodge or something?’

  Just then the door opened a second time and a man stood there, a stocky young fellow with fair hair that came down the sides of his ruddy face in two elaborate sideburns. He wore a white shirt, buttoned at the neck with a fancy-looking black bow tie, and a green velvet waistcoat. When he saw Jamie, his face split into an amiable grin, revealing rows of even white teeth.

  ‘Well, now,’ he exclaimed. ‘As I live and breathe, if it isn’t Master Jamie!’ His accent was much like Mrs Laird’s, hard and guttural and Tom remembered that Jamie had referred to him as ‘Irish’ Billy. The man was holding a white clay pipe in one hand and he took a moment to lift it to his lips in order to take a couple of leisurely puffs from it. ‘What brings you to our door?’ he asked.

  Jamie indicated Tom. ‘This is my English friend,

  T . . . Tom Afflick. He’s just arrived here in Edinburgh and he has n . . . nowhere to stay. We wondered if there might b . . . be a room here for him.’

  ‘I have money,’ said Tom quickly.

  Billy studied him with evident interest, taking in his unusual clothing.

  ‘An Englishman, is it?’ He puffed on the pipe again, sending fragrant wafts of smoke up into the air. ‘I’d say fashions have changed a bit since I was last there.’ He studied the lettering on Tom’s t-shirt for a moment, as though trying to puzzle it out. ‘You have some family with you, Tom?’ he asked. ‘Parents . . . brothers or sisters?’