He sensed movement out in the yard and right on cue Jamie appeared at the entrance of the stall, grinning away and proffering his usual bundle of scraps. No fancy cake this morning. His bare feet were blue with the cold but he seemed oblivious to the fact.
‘G . . . g . . . good morning!’ he said cheerily. ‘How’s T . . . Tom today?’
‘I’m all right,’ grunted Tom although his tone made it quite clear that he was really quite the opposite.
‘What’s the m . . . matter?’ asked Jamie, coming forward and settling himself into his usual spot. ‘Still worried about g . . . getting back to your own t . . . time?’
After what had happened on that first visit to Surgeons’ Hall, he’d had no option but to tell Jamie all about it. Jamie had actually seen him disappear, for goodness sake, and had been left to push the wooden cart back to Laird’s all by himself. When he’d got back he’d made up some excuse to explain Tom’s absence because he couldn’t quite believe what he’d seen with his own eyes, and there was no way he was going to tell Billy and Will what had really happened. So the following morning, while they sat devouring a whole cream cake, Tom had been obliged to tell Jamie everything, from his first trip to Mary King’s Close to his arrival in Tanner’s Close. Jamie had listened enthralled and typically of him, had accepted the story without hesitation. This was more than could be said for the McCallums, who, since first being informed of Tom’s strange situation, had never mentioned the matter again.
Mind you, they hadn’t seen Tom disappear right in front of their eyes.
‘It’s not about that,’ said Tom. ‘I know I’ll get back sooner or later. At least, I’m pretty sure I will. It’s just–’
‘Wh . . . what?’ persisted Jamie. ‘You l . . . look sad.’
Tom sighed. ‘I’m . . . fed up with everything,’ he complained. ‘I mean, look at me!’ He spread his arms open so that Jamie could get a better view of his general shabbiness. ‘I look a complete dosser. At home I was a sharp dresser. I used to have a shower every morning.’
‘What’s a sh . . . sh . . .?’
‘It’s like a bath, only you stand up?’
Jamie looked horrified. ‘A bath every morning? Oh, T . . . Tom, that’s not healthy!’
‘Oh, but it is. This isn’t healthy, sitting around in smelly clothes, eating other people’s leftovers.’ He glanced at Jamie who was just unwrapping his bundle of scraps. ‘No offence,’ he said. ‘But . . . where’s the cornflakes? The fresh milk? The toast? I’d kill for some peanut butter and jam!’
‘I could p . . . probably get some jam,’ said Jamie. ‘But what’s p . . . pea . . .?’
‘Never mind,’ said Tom, crossly.
‘I’ve g . . . got some nice stuff this morning. L . . . look!’ Jamie waved his hands over the mess of scraps as though he was offering Tom a luxurious ‘all he could eat’ buffet. He pointed. ‘See that there? That’s a genuine p . . . p . . . pig’s trotter.’
‘Oh, lush! You can have that, with my blessing,’ Tom assured him. ‘I’m really not hungry.’
‘Och, c . . . come on, you have to have s . . . something to keep b . . . b . . . body and soul together. Hey, maybe Billy will have another errand for us soon and we can b . . . buy another cream cake!’ Jamie leaned back on one arm and his hand sank into the straw at the corner of the stall. His expression changed. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, puzzled. He withdrew his hand and he was clutching a red velvet purse. ‘This y . . . yours?’ he asked.
‘Course not,’ muttered Tom. ‘That’s a woman’s bag.’ But the sight of the purse stirred something within him. He’d seen it somewhere before, recently, he thought. He could picture it clutched in a woman’s hands . . .
Jamie had opened the purse to look inside it. ‘It’s empty,’ he said, sounding quite disappointed. He made to put it into his pocket. ‘But maybe I can get a p . . . penny for it on the m . . . market.’
‘Hold on, you can’t just take it. Somebody might be looking for that.’ Tom reached out and grabbed the purse from Jamie’s hands. ‘I wonder how it got here?’ he said, staring at it.
‘I suppose somebody must have d . . . d . . . dropped it,’ suggested Jamie.
‘But nobody ever comes here. Except . . .’ Then Tom remembered. ‘Wait!’ he said. ‘The woman who called, she had a red purse! I’m sure she did.’
‘What w . . . woman?’ asked Jamie, selecting a handful of something unspeakable from his bundle. ‘Nell?’
‘No. The woman who came here looking for her mother. Haldane, I think her name was. Yes . . . Peggy Haldane.’
Jamie frowned. ‘That’s f . . . funny.’
‘What is?’
‘S . . . somebody was only asking me about them the other day. P . . . Peggy. Her mother is called M . . . Mary, right?’
‘Yeah, that’s them. Who was asking?’
‘Oh, j . . . just a woman I know. She s . . . stopped me on the street. Asked me if I’d seen either of ‘em. Said p . . . people were worried about them, because they’ve g . . . g . . . gone missing.’
‘Missing?’ Tom tried to recall exactly what had happened when Peggy had paid him that unexpected visit. ‘Well, what happened was, the mum was over in the lodging house having a drink and she was taken ill. So Margaret let her have a room. And then Peggy turned up, dead worried and everything, and Margaret was really nice to her . . .’ Tom stopped talking. Jamie was giving him a disbelieving look.
‘M . . . M . . . Margaret was nice to somebody?’ he cried. ‘Are you sure?’
Tom smiled. ‘Er . . . yeah. Now you mention it, it does sound kind of odd, doesn’t it? But seriously, she was dead welcoming. Took her over to the house for a drink of brandy. She sent me off to get Billy and then I had to do this errand for her. Took ages. By the time I got back, the two women had . . . well, they’d gone.’
‘When was this?’ asked Jamie, chewing a mouthful of gristle.
‘Oh, a while back. It must have been . . . yeah, it was the same day we took that tea chest over to the Surgeons’ Hall . . .’
‘The t . . . time you disappeared?’
‘No, the very next night. You remember . . . you spent all the money on cake. You got a great big . . .’
He stopped talking as he saw that Jamie was staring past him towards the entrance of the stall. Tom lifted his head to see Margaret standing there, regarding the two of them in silence. Tom had no idea how long she’d been there or how much she’d heard.
‘Margaret,’ he said. “We were just . . .’
‘What have you got there?’ she asked, pointing.
‘Oh, er . . . this?’ Tom lifted the purse. ‘Jamie found it in the straw,’ he said. ‘I think it belongs to Peggy Hal . . .’
‘It’s mine,’ said Margaret, stepping forward into the stall. ‘Been looking for it everywhere, I have. A present from Will, for my last birthday.’
‘Oh, but I thought it looked . . .’
Before he could protest Margaret reached down a meaty hand and pulled the purse from his grasp. ‘I hope you two haven’t spoiled it with your greasy hands,’ she said. ‘This is my favourite, this is.’ She looked accusingly at Jamie. ‘You sure you found it? You haven’t been snooping around in the house and helping yourself to a few things?’
‘No, Margaret, I was with him when he found it,’ protested Tom. ‘It was hidden in the straw, honest. Jamie’s no thief.’
‘Humph.’ Margaret looked down with evident disgust at the bundle of scraps, lying on the straw. ‘What’s all this?’ she cried.
‘It’s . . . breakfast,’ said Tom, dismally.
‘Good Lord! It’s a wonder you two don’t make yourselves ill, eating a mess like that,’ she observed.
Jamie stared up at her defiantly. ‘T . . . Tom has to eat something,’ he said. ‘And y . . . you don’t bother
f . . . feeding him, do you?’
Margaret stared down at him, her eyes glittering with venom. ‘And who are you to question me?’ she sneered. ‘A street
beggar. A beggar and a halfwit.’
‘I’m n . . . no beggar,’ protested Jamie. ‘Ask anyone.’
‘And he’s no halfwit either,’ added Tom, for good measure. ‘He’s one of the brainiest people I know.’
Margaret laughed. ‘He doesn’t even have my permission to be here,’ she said. ‘Jumped-up little puppy thinks he can come and go as he pleases.’ She leaned closer and looked Jamie in the eye. ‘Billy might have a soft spot for you . . . and that painted tart he calls his wife . . . but you don’t impress me, Jamie Wilson, not one wee bit. A word from me and you won’t see your English friend, here, ever again.’
Jamie seemed to be close to losing his temper. ‘I’ll
s . . . see whoever I like,’ he snarled. ‘You c . . . can’t tell me what to do!’
‘I can tell you what I like when you’re trespassing on my property!’
‘Margaret, he was just visiting me,’ pleaded Tom. ‘He . . . he wasn’t doing any harm.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Jamie glowered at her. ‘You think I want to be here? I’m only looking after Tom because you’re doing a
t . . . t . . . terrible job. And d . . . don’t you think it’s funny that P . . . Peggy Haldane’s purse is here, when everybody on the street knows that she’s gone m . . .
m . . . missing?’
‘It’s not her purse!’ retorted Margaret. ‘It’s mine. And I’ll thank you to mind your own business.’
‘It does look like Peggy’s purse,’ said Tom.
Margaret rounded on him. ‘What do you know about it?’ she screamed. ‘I won’t be questioned by two beggars! I’m a respectable landlady with a business of my own.’ With that she launched a kick at Jamie’s bundle and scattered its contents all over the stall. ‘Clear this mess out and take yourself off with it. I’ll not have you here again, you’re not welcome, Jamie Wilson. Tom, I need you in the kitchen, there’s work to be done.’
‘But . . .’
Margaret grabbed a length of rope from a hook on the wall and took a threatening step towards Tom. ‘Stay out of it,’ she said, ‘unless you want me to pepper your britches for you.’ She turned back and glared at Jamie. ‘I’m waiting,’ she snarled. ‘Or do you want me to help you on your way, Master Jamie?’
Jamie stared back at her for a moment, but then his nerve seemed to fail him. He got reluctantly to his feet, grabbed what was left of his bundle and slunk towards the doors. ‘I’ll see you l . . . later,’ he muttered to Tom as he went by. ‘When the w . . . witch is in her lair.’
Margaret spat out an oath and lunged towards Jamie, and he took to his heels and ran across the yard, out of sight. Margaret turned round in the doorway. Tom had never seen her so angry. Her eyes were bulging and her face was bright red.
‘I don’t know why you’re so angry with him,’ said Tom. ‘He only . . .’
‘I will not be questioned in my own home, especially not by the likes of him,’ said Margaret. ‘And you’d do well to watch your mouth, also. You’re only here because of Billy’s silver tongue. If I had my way, you’d never have set foot in this place. Now, there’s a big stack of dirty dishes in the kitchen waiting for your attention. And when you’ve finished them, there are fires to be laid and floors to be swept and bed pans to be emptied. So get to it.’
Tom trudged dejectedly out of the stable and across the yard, wondering why he didn’t just run away. Maybe sleeping rough on the streets with Jamie would be preferable to this. It wasn’t as if he was being paid for his trouble.
He went in at the back door and along the hall. Billy was sitting at his usual table, reading a newspaper and drinking tea. He looked up as Tom entered and grinned his amiable grin. ‘Here’s the boyo,’ he observed. ‘What’s up with you? You look like you found a shilling and lost two!’
Tom shrugged. ‘I’ve just had a tongue-lashing from Margaret,’ he said.
‘What else is new?’ Billy laughed softly. ‘What was it this time?’
‘Jamie found a purse in the stable. I think it was left here by Peggy Haldane, but Margaret says it’s hers.’
‘Peggy Haldane? Oh, that bit of baggage that came asking after her mother? Ah, don’t be worrying yourself over that one. Her and the old woman was only tryin’ to get money out of Margaret.’
Tom frowned. He’d thought Peggy seemed all right.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Sure, they’ve pulled that trick all over Edinburgh. The old one pretends to get sick and then the daughter comes a lookin’ for her. Then they try and blame the sickness on the food or the drink you served and they demand money or they’ll tell everyone not to bring their custom around.’ He gave a dismissive snort. ‘We saw through that quick enough. Sent them on their way, so we did.’
‘Jamie reckons people are saying the two of them have gone missing.’
‘Is that a fact? Trying their luck in another town, I expect.’
Just then the door opened and Margaret came into the room. She still had the rope in her hand. She glared at Tom. ‘I thought I told you to get to work,’ she snapped.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way,’ he assured her and headed out of the room and along the corridor to the kitchen. Billy tipped him a sly wink as he went. At the top of the corridor Tom glanced back and saw that Margaret was now sitting at the table opposite Billy. The two of them were talking quietly, their heads bowed, as though whispering, and Tom noticed that the red purse was on the table between them.
He frowned. He pushed through the door into the kitchen and saw a great big pile of dirty plates, pots and pans, stacked up beside the battered stone sink, waiting for his attention.
‘Another day in paradise,’ he muttered. He trudged over to the cooking range, lifted the heavy black kettle and carried it across to the sink. He tilted the kettle and hot water cascaded over the pots, sending clouds of steam billowing up into his face.
‘You wash and I’ll wipe,’ said a familiar voice. He turned, staring in dull surprise. Cat smiled at him. ‘Wassup?’ she asked him. ‘You look freaked.’
That was an understatement. He stared down at the kettle in his hand, which was suddenly much lighter, and saw that it was no longer a big, black iron affair, but a white plastic jug kettle with the word Instaboil printed on the side of it. He glanced around the room and somehow wasn’t surprised to find he was no longer in Margaret’s filthy stone kitchen, but a sleek, modern fitted one, complete with microwave, fan oven and pop-up toaster. He didn’t recognise it. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a place he’d been before and yet at the same time it seemed strangely familiar to him, as though he’d spent some time here.
He looked frantically around and saw a coaster lying on a worktop that said I ♥ Manchester. So he was back again? In front of him, above the sink, a double glazed window gave a view of a large, nicely tended garden below them, looking fresh and appealing in the sunshine. It was clearly an upstairs apartment they were in. But it wasn’t the change of location that was the hardest thing to take in. It was Cat. She looked very different to how he remembered her.
For one thing, her hair was cut in a short, straight bob and she was wearing a splash of green makeup around her eyes. For another, she was dressed in modern clothing – blue jeans, Converse sneakers and a red T-shirt that said ‘Party Girl.’ Most puzzling of all, she looked about ten years older.
‘Whoah!’ said Tom. It seemed appropriate.
Fifteen
Cat gave him an odd look. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked him.
‘Er . . . nothing,’ he said. Stay calm, he told himself. You’ve had things like this happen before. An alternative reality. Just go with it and eventually it’ll sort itself out. It usually does.
‘What are you doing with the kettle?’
‘Huh? Umm . . . Just getting some hot water?’ he suggested.
Cat shook her head as though he were a hopeless case. ‘For your information, there’s this fantastic new invention,’ she told him. She re
ached over and turned on the hot tap. ‘See.’
He nodded and looked around until he found the base standing on a worktop. He went over and set the kettle down on it. ‘I . . . didn’t think the water would be hot enough,’ he muttered.
‘What? Not been paying the leccy bill again?’ she teased him.
His mind was racing. He looked down at himself and saw he was wearing a check shirt, khaki combat trousers and black trainers. He’d never seen any of the clothes before, but they looked clean and tidy and, better still, they smelled ok. He looked around the open plan apartment. No sign of anybody else.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ he murmured.
She glared at him. ‘Everyone else?’ she echoed. ‘Like who?’
‘My dad. Your mum?’
She gave him a wary look. ‘Please tell me you haven’t invited them over without telling me?’ she growled.
‘Er . . . no! No, of course not. I just . . .’ He didn’t know the best way to play this. He occupied himself for a moment, rubbing the washcloth across a couple of plates and handing them to Cat, who dried them with a tea towel and took them across to a cupboard. She seemed to know where everything went, so it was clear that she was no stranger here.
‘So er . . . what happens when we finish this?’ he wondered and now she gave him a look that made his heart race.
‘Well, ‘ she said. ‘You’re going to listen to the next chapter of my masterpiece.’ She smiled wickedly. ‘After that, we’ll see what happens.’
Tom noticed she still had a trace of the Scottish accent, though it seemed less broad than he remembered, as though she’d been living in Manchester a long while. ‘So . . . er . . . what time do you have to go?’ he wondered.
She stared at him. ‘Go? Go where?’
‘Haven’t you somewhere you need to be?’
‘Like where . . . for instance?’
He stared at her. ‘Umm . . . Edinburgh?’ he suggested.
She laughed. ‘Funny man,’ she said. She looked wistful. ‘Edinburgh. I haven’t been back since I was fourteen,’ she said.
Seventeen Coffins Page 11
