by Sue Lawrence
Chapter 3
1981
Craig watched the removal van drive away, heading along the road to Leith, before he turned back into the wood-panelled hall where Rona was standing by the cellar door. ‘Thought you locked this yesterday?’
‘I did. Why? Is it open?’
Rona turned the handle and pushed the door wide. Craig frowned and patted his pockets. ‘I’ve left my keys somewhere. Maybe the removers put some boxes down there. I’ll nip down and check.’
‘Just leave it for now,’ said Rona, unable to repress a shudder.
‘Don’t be daft, it’s just a bit gloomy. I’ll put in a stronger light bulb soon.’
‘We need to get on with unpacking all our stuff, that’s all.’ Rona wandered through to the annexe which was full of cardboard boxes. In the bedroom, the bed was piled with clothes from the hanging wardrobes. She walked through to the kitchen and plugged in the fridge.
‘Cooker’s arriving this afternoon. We can cook our first dinner in our new home tonight.’
‘And sleep in our own bed,’ Craig said, opening a box of kitchen utensils.
The doorbell rang and they both looked at each other. ‘Who could that be?’
‘The removers have maybe forgotten something,’ said Craig, heading for the main hall to open the door.
‘Hello there, just wanted to introduce myself. Saw you’d moved in.’ It was the postman, holding out a letter.
‘Thanks,’ said Rona. ‘Who on earth’s writing to us here?’ She turned the letter over. ‘Oh, it’s Mum’s handwriting, it’ll be a welcome-to-your-new-home card.’
The postman, a short man with thick-lensed glasses, put down his bag and beamed at them both. ‘What are your plans for such a big house then?’ He peered past them. ‘My oh my, that’s a good-sized hall you’ve got.’
‘We’re converting the house into a care home,’ said Craig.
‘Yes, once we’ve put in bathrooms, it’ll be for twelve residents.’
The postman’s eyes widened. ‘Goodness me, that’ll be a lot of work. So it’s got twelve bedrooms, has it?’
‘Not including our annexe, that’s the new part,’ said Rona, pointing off to the left.
‘My oh my, won’t this be something else? Like an old folks’ home then?’
‘Kind of. But it’ll be more, well, luxurious – more like a five-star hotel but with medical provision.’
‘My word! Good to see it occupied at last. Everyone up the road in Trinity was wondering how many more months it would take. Been on the market a long time, I was told.’
‘That’s right.’ Rona smiled. ‘Anyway, nice to meet you.’
The postman picked up the bag at his feet and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Right-oh then. See you tomorrow.’ He took a step, then turned back. ‘And don’t forget, I’ve always got time for a chat. Not like the young lads who go so fast on their rounds they don’t even know their customers’ names.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Rona, waving him off.
Craig burst out laughing. ‘Don’t think we’re going to get away with much, having a nosey postie like him.’
‘Bless him, he obviously loves a good chat. He’s maybe lonely. We had a postie like that in Stornoway, really sweet. Mum used to bake a batch of scones especially for him calling. She’d start slathering on the butter and jam when she heard the gate click open.’
Craig smiled. ‘Remind me, how long was the house on the market for?’
‘I think just over a year. Maybe longer. They put it to fixed price then still had no offers till ours. I only saw it that one time, you were doing most of the viewings.’
Craig nodded. ‘I just don’t get it. I mean, a brilliant, solid house like this, just made for conversion.’
‘Not everyone’s got a spare twenty grand to spend on bathrooms and bedrooms for a whole load of old folk.’
‘True,’ said Craig, heading for the annexe. ‘I’ll start in the kitchen.’
‘I’ll make up our bed and sort things out in there.’
Several hours later, Rona emerged from the shower room wearing sloppy tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt, her hair wrapped up in a towel. She went into the kitchen where Craig was chopping onions. She went over to put her arms round her husband. ‘It’s chilly in here. You wouldn’t think it was September.’
‘Much bigger house to heat, love.’ Craig turned to look at her freckled face and planted a kiss on her nose. ‘Is the shower okay?’
Rona removed the towel from her head and shook out her curly red hair. ‘Yup, much better than our old one actually.’
Craig turned back to the pan, tipped in the onions then shook in some cumin. ‘Thank God for your dad’s inheritance money. You still got some in that account?’
It irritated Rona that Craig was so vague about money – and he knew it. Was he deliberately trying to get a rise from her? ‘Not much, most of it went towards the house. But you know that, Craig.’ The nagging worry about money returned – had they overstretched themselves?
The doorbell rang.
‘God, there it goes again. Our bell never rang once in Dundee but now we’re in Newhaven that’s twice in one day.’
‘You get it. I’m not decent,’ said Rona.
Craig turned the gas to low and headed for the door. Rona slipped through to the bedroom at the front and peered between the slats in the blinds at the open window.
Craig opened the front door to an elegant, slim woman with cropped dark hair, dressed in black with a bright-pink silk scarf. There was a wicker basket at her feet and she extended her hand, which Craig shook.
‘Hi, I’m Martha from next door. Well, not really next door, your house is so big you’ve no close neighbours. I live in the small lodge house over the wall at the back.’ She pointed to the left and continued in a drawling voice. ‘Just wanted to welcome you guys. I’ve made you a stew.’
It was when she pronounced stew as ‘stoo’, that Rona realised their neighbour was American.
‘Thanks. D’you want to come in? Meet my wife?’
‘Sure,’ she said, picking up her basket and offering Craig a dazzling smile.
‘Come on through.’
Rona raced over to the dressing table and plugged in the hairdryer. She tipped her head upside down and blasted her hair dry. The door opened and Craig shouted over the noise, ‘We’ve got a visitor!’ Rona switched off the dryer and ran her fingers through her tousled locks.
The American was standing by the stove, looking out the window. She turned round when Craig returned with Rona. ‘Nice view. And you must be able to see the sea from up on the top floor of the main house. You’re lucky, my house has those huge trees in the way.’ She held out her hand to Rona and introduced herself again.
‘So where are you from?’
‘California.’
‘Where about?’
‘Not far from San Francisco. Small town you’ll never have heard of.’ She smiled and looked at Rona’s curly red hair and green eyes. ‘How about you? You’ve got real Celtic colouring.’
Rona smiled. ‘No getting away from it, is there? Stornoway, Isle of Lewis.’
‘And you, Craig? You don’t sound Scottish.’
‘Essex, born and bred.’
‘So how did you guys meet?’
‘Both students at Dundee; I did law, Craig was a medic.’
‘Couple of high-flyers …’
‘Would you like a drink?’ Craig pointed to the table. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Yes, you can fill us in on everyone who lives around here,’ said Rona, fetching a bottle of wine from the fridge.
‘Like I said, I’m your only close neighbour. There’s no one else in our road. You have to carry on up the hill towards Trinity and those big houses there.’ Martha sat down. ‘But near us, there’s no one. Well, there’s the house opposite, I suppose, but you never see them. Youngish professional couple, both lawyers and both out all day till really late then always away at weekends. Used to be ow
ned by the Bells, but they left about five years ago, when they couldn’t manage the house. They were getting on, pretty old. Don’t know where they went. They weren’t short of a dollar or two so maybe they went into some fancy retirement home. They didn’t have any kids to take them in.’
‘Have you any family?’
Martha shook her head and took a sip of wine. ‘Mmm, nice wine.’ She turned to Craig. ‘Riesling?’
Craig shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dunno. It’s just white wine to me. Sorry it’s not colder.’
‘I usually buy it.’ Rona swirled her glass around. Why did this woman presume the man of the house bought the wine?
Martha shrugged. ‘So what are your plans here? It’s a bit of a relief you bought it, it was empty for a long time.’
‘Did you know the previous owners?’ Rona asked. ‘The estate agents said they only stayed a few months, had to go back to somewhere abroad. Was it Hong Kong?’
Martha raised one eyebrow. ‘That what they told you? They never really settled in. Said the house wasn’t what they’d thought it would be and just upped and left. Then it lay empty for, what, two, three years?’
Craig pulled the tab on a can of lager. ‘No idea why. It’s perfect. A bit rambling, but good for our plans.’
Martha got up and walked towards the door into the hall. She peeked round the corner into the old part and nodded. ‘Thought so. They didn’t leave any furniture or curtains or anything, did they?’
‘Just a few curtains, but that suits us fine.’
‘Donnie was telling me you’re going to make it into a care home.’ Martha sat down again.
‘Who’s Donnie?’
‘Our garrulous postman,’ Martha said, smiling. ‘He’s new on this round but already it seems no secret’s safe in Newhaven.’
Craig told Martha about the conversion plans while Rona sat back, studying the woman, trying to assess how old she was. She was well groomed and wore lots of make up. Her hair was definitely dyed, it was jet black. Perhaps ten years older than them – mid forties?
‘Well, it’s an amazing project. What put it into your heads to run a care home?’
‘My gran lived with us at home on Lewis and my mum ended up looking after her full-time,’ Rona replied. ‘And I got to thinking, what if Mum hadn’t been able to do that? Gran would have ended up in one of those awful old folks’ homes which were like Victorian institutions, all cabbagey smells and no dignity. So we decided to give up our jobs and start one ourselves, more like a luxury home.’
Martha nodded. ‘Yeah. The money you make should be good too.’
Rona bristled. ‘Yes, eventually, maybe, but that’s not the purpose.’
‘I reckon you guys are pretty brave, setting up a care home. But, hey, life always comes round full circle, doesn’t it?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Well, you know what this house was in the nineteenth century?’
‘Yes,’ said Rona, sniffing the wine in her glass. She wasn’t enjoying the taste at all. Was it corked? Maybe it just wasn’t cold enough. ‘We heard it was built in the 1860s by some naval captain who wanted to be able to see the sea from his house. That was one of the things that attracted me. My dad ran a shipbuilding business and he just loved the sea.’
‘Yeah, but then it became a poorhouse, you know, a place for folk with no money to support themselves.’
‘What?’ Rona and Craig both stared at her.
‘Maybe that’s why it was on the market so long and was so cheap.’
‘It wasn’t that cheap!’
‘Calm down, Rona. Look at the size of the place! We did get it for a bargain.’ Craig turned to Martha. ‘But why did it become a poorhouse?’
‘The sea captain sold it on to someone else, who then became bankrupt or something, and so in the mid 1870s, Wardie House became a poorhouse. It was used by poor people from Leith and north Edinburgh.’
‘But hang on. If it was a poorhouse, would it not have had big dormitories instead of individual bedrooms?’
‘I’m just telling you what a local historian told me.’
‘Rona, remember I said some of those walls between the rooms are plywood? I think they would’ve been bigger rooms originally,’ said Craig.
‘I seem to remember him telling me that the previous owners had the idea in the 1960s to make it into a hotel, but they ran out of money. Maybe that’s why you have twelve separate rooms.’ Martha took another sip then looked at her flashy gold watch.
‘How long have you lived here, Martha?’ Rona asked.
‘Oh, a few years, difficult to remember exactly how many.’
‘And before that, were you—’
Martha stood up. ‘Now, I really must be going, I’ll leave you to your stew. Give it ten minutes or so in the microwave or an hour in the oven.’
‘Thanks. See you around, then,’ Rona said, as the American swept past them and out the front door, wafting a strong musky scent behind her.
Chapter 4
1898
Jessie tapped on the back door and waited. Soon she heard the noise of the key in the lock and the door opened. The stout woman stood there, glowering. ‘Come away in, then, and don’t you ever use that main door again.’ She locked the door behind Jessie. ‘This is the door you’ll use. It leads only into the garden and that’s all enclosed by walls.’ She pointed at a small door in the corner. ‘There’s no way out, just in case you’re thinking of heading back down the road.’
‘No, ’course not,’ stammered Jessie, looking all around the kitchen. The huge blackened range had several large pans on it and hanging on the rail at the front were a row of tatty, grey kitchen rags.
‘Right. Clothes off,’ barked the woman, walking towards the table where a pile of garments lay.
Jessie hesitated.
‘You need to put on the same as everyone else. Here’s your petticoat, shift, cap and stockings. Washing day’s Monday so be sure you keep it all clean till then. Your bath day’ll be a Friday. You’re lucky, at most other poorhouses it’s a bath once a fortnight but Matron’s keen on everyone being clean.’
The woman leant over Jessie and sniffed. ‘You stink of fish. It’s a good job it’s Thursday today.’ She peered at Jessie’s face. ‘You’ve got a smudge. Wipe it off with one of those rags.’
Jessie hung her head. ‘It’s not dirt, it’s my birthmark.’
The woman stared again at the broad, dark brown mole that extended from Jessie’s upper lip to one nostril, then she sat down on a chair, her fat thighs wide apart under her grubby apron.
Jessie began to pull off her tight shoes, trying hard to stand on one leg without wobbling. ‘I’ve never had a bath before, only a scrub-down in the basin in the kitchen.’
‘Don’t be getting too keen. You’ll be in a queue, at least twenty of you in the same water. By the time the last person’s been in, it looks like thin, greasy mutton broth – and cold at that.’
The woman helped Jessie pull her dress over her head.
‘I’m Molly, by the way. I’m the cook here. You know you’re to help me in the kitchen, don’t you? The last lassie, Lizzie Smith, was sent off to Leith last night so I need you to start in the scullery as soon as Matron’s seen you. There’s still all today’s porridge plates to be washed.’ Molly pointed to a deep sink piled high with bowls. ‘How old are you?’
‘Fourteen, I just turned fourteen.’
‘Just a year younger than Lizzie. Poor wee mite, she’ll not fare well down at the docks. But that’s how Matron punishes them.’
‘My Uncle Jack says Leith’s a fine place.’
‘Aye, fine for a man maybe, not for a penniless lassie who’ll soon have a bairn to mind. She’s no choice of how to earn a bob or two down the docks.’ Molly shook her head. ‘Anyway, since you’re fourteen, you can still sleep in the girls’ dormitory. You might need to share a mattress, probably with Big Bertha. She’s a bit simple – you won’t be bothered by her.’
Jessi
e was used to sleeping with her sister and often their mother too. To sleep alone would have been a novelty. ‘How many girls are there?’
‘About twenty. Only twelve boys though, and there’s twenty-one men and twenty-five women … well, if you count Effie.’ Molly wiped her nose on her forearm and pulled some straggly hair back into her bun. ‘The boys’ and men’s dormitories are at the other end of the house so you won’t have much to do with them apart from mealtimes.’
Jessie shivered as she pulled on the full-length petticoat – the dun material was cold and slightly damp. Molly folded her clothes and stood up. ‘Right. Come along with me. You’ve to see Matron now.’
Jessie followed Molly out the kitchen door and into the dark corridor. She looked up at the gas lamps high on the walls, but none appeared to be lit. She turned her head up towards the windows and saw they were fitted with bars, like a prison. She had heard about prison cells from one of her brother’s friends who had ended up there after attacking a Dutch sailor down at Leith. Jimmy said it was always dark because of the bars on the windows. She looked up through the gloom and could make out some paintings hanging along the walls. They were all of important-looking men wearing black suits with a white collar. Some had neat moustaches, some had long, bushy whiskers.
Molly stopped at a door and knocked.
‘Enter!’
Jessie followed the cook inside a dim room, lit by the flickering flames of a fire in the grate. A lady sat at a desk, her pen poised over an inkwell.
‘Jessie Mack, Matron.’ Molly pushed Jessie forward.
‘Come forward, child. I see you have changed already. But what is that strong odour?’ Matron beckoned with a thin finger. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Fish. Did Cook say when your wash day is?’
‘Tomorrow, Matron.’
‘Good,’ she said, opening a drawer.
Jessie stood, too frightened to move, gazing at the woman raking around in the drawer. Matron was dressed all in black, with a high white collar at her neck, just like the men in the portraits. Below the ruff of her collar sat a pearl choker, two strands, tight together. Her hair was drawn back into a bun so tight the skin was taut at the sides of her face. She removed a sheet of paper then nodded at Molly, pointing to the door.
