Down to the Sea

by Sue Lawrence

  Jessie lifted herself up onto an elbow and listened. She could hear the faint noise of wheels creaking. It must be Effie downstairs. Could Jessie ask her about her life or would she get angry? She slipped one leg off the mattress and then the other. She pulled her shawl round her shoulders, reached under the mattress and thrust the cloth deep into the pocket of her smock. Patting her pocket, now Jessie felt safe. She tiptoed out of the dormitory and headed for the stairs.

  The door to the cellar was ajar so Jessie pushed it open and peered inside. There, at the far end, was Effie, her pigtail swinging to and fro as she walked up and down. As Jessie approached, she noticed Effie was pushing the huge pram with one hand; the other was clutching something. It looked like a frame.

  ‘Effie,’ she whispered. ‘Effie, it’s me, Jessie. Are you all right?’

  Effie swivelled round. On seeing Jessie, her face relaxed and she smiled. ‘Come and see, Winzie, see what I’ve got here.’

  Jessie went nearer but still couldn’t see well. ‘I can’t see, Effie, is there a candle?’

  Effie nodded and thrust a wooden thing into Jessie’s hands, then padded over to the stairs. Jessie turned the wooden thing over and saw it was a picture. She squinted to try to make out what it was but could only see the outline of a head. Effie walked towards her, carrying a lit candle, the light making her dark eyes huge, her wrinkled face ghostly white.

  Effie held the candle beside the painting and Jessie stared at it. It was a young woman with long chestnut-brown hair and large dark eyes. She had a high-necked black collar with a line of white along the edge as if she wore a stiff-collared blouse underneath a high silk gown. There was something sparkly held between her two fawn gloves. She was looking directly at the painter and, though unsmiling, there was the flicker of something in her eyes. What was it – affection, tenderness? But there was also something familiar about the lady in the painting. Jessie stared at it again, then held it at arm’s length. Effie moved the candle beside it and smiled encouragingly.

  Jessie gasped. ‘Effie, it’s you!’ She peered at it again. ‘Look at you! What a lady you were.’

  Effie set down the candle and snatched back the painting. She held it up high so that the portrait was beside her head. Even though Effie’s greying hair was now yanked back in a tight pigtail and her eyes were surrounded by puffy purple bags through lack of sleep, the similarity was now obvious.

  ‘Effie, you’re so fine and beautiful. A real lady. What …’

  ‘What happened to the lady, Winzie? Indeed.’ Effie took the painting and moved towards the pram. She lifted the cover and delved into the footwell. She shuffled some things around then brought out something small, a piece of stiff paper. She handed it to Jessie, who realised it was one of those things called a photograph. The year before, she and Dorrie had been made to sit in the front row of the Newhaven Fisherlassies choir the day a man came to take their picture with his camera. They had to sit very still, not moving an inch, and wait while he disappeared under a vast black cloth and shouted a muffled ‘Smile!’ They had seen the picture later, after church one day. The minister had been delighted that his choir lassies were in this picture, since the lassies from the choir in Granton had not been asked to pose for the camera.

  The photograph in Jessie’s hand was a little faded, the brown colours dingy, but she could make out that it was a baby. The baby had short tufts of dark hair and had its eyes closed. It was lying on a blanket on a chair. It had a white sheet swaddled around its body and a crocheted shawl wrapped round its neck and tucked under its chin. There were two flowers laid on the chair beside it, their long stems the length of the baby’s body.

  ‘Who’s the baby, Effie?’

  Effie began to push the pram handles up and down as if pacifying a crying baby. She walked the pram gently across the back of the cellar and came back to Jessie, leaning in close. ‘It’s my baby, my little one.’

  Effie heard the noise before Jessie. She grabbed the photograph back. ‘Go and hide, Winzie. Run!’

  Jessie had just got to the coal cellar when she heard Matron’s voice.

  ‘Euphemia, I thought you said you were going to try to sleep in your bed, your own bed in our home. Why don’t you come along? Andrew is out somewhere for the evening and we both know how that will end up. He will not bother us. Come, I need to ask you something.’

  Jessie pulled the door shut but could still hear the sisters talking.

  ‘I know you have something behind your back. Show me your hands. Both of them! Oh, for God’s sake, are you still holding onto that photograph?’

  ‘Give it back, Bella, give it back.’

  ‘Come with me now to the house. We need to find where you put the diamond. Then, once you have remembered, then – and only then – might we be able to give up this God-forsaken poorhouse and live in comfort as we used to.’

  Jessie had never heard a woman blaspheme before; she was surprised at Matron. Of course, down at the harbour the men and women swore, but she had never imagined a lady would.

  Jessie heard a tussle as if they were pushing each other about. She then heard Effie gasp.

  ‘If you don’t come with me now and help me find it, I shall destroy this!’

  ‘No!’ she heard Effie cry. ‘Not the photograph. Give it back, give it back!’

  Jessie peeked out to see Matron hold the tiny photograph high above her head and Effie try to grab it.

  ‘Then come with me to the lodge house. We shall look together. Then you might have this back. Come, Euphemia!’

  Jessie saw Effie lunge at Matron, but Matron stepped aside and Effie stumbled and fell over.

  ‘Get up now, you fool.’ She saw Matron sigh and help Effie to her feet. ‘Come along. You may return here later. Let’s go and have a nice slice of cake.’

  Jessie watched the two sisters pass nearby as they headed up the stairs for the door, Matron holding on firmly to the photograph and Effie running her hands up and down her legs as if scratching her skin through the folds of her flimsy dress. Her eyes were wide with fear.

  Chapter 33

  1982

  Rona knocked on the door and looked around. The garden was a mess, full of mounds of earth. Martha was such a fastidious woman in her appearance, why did she not bother with the garden? There must be a company who could deal with the moles in a humane way?

  Rona knocked again and waited. There was still no answer. She tried to peer in the front window, but as usual the curtains were all drawn. Rona gave one more loud, sharp knock then went round the back of the house, trying the back door, but it too was locked. There was obviously no one at home. Noticing a small door by the shed, Rona bent down to open it and saw it was a wide chute. This must have been a coal cellar; the walls were stained black, as if sooty. She pulled the door to and headed back round the front.

  Rona wandered back along the road to Wardie House and stopped at the gate. The baby was moving. She smiled and spread her fingers wide over her belly. Not long now.

  She looked over the road towards Mrs Bell’s old house and wondered why no one ever saw the residents. Martha had said they were always at work or away at weekends, but it was still rather odd that there was never any sign of them, her nearest neighbours. She’d ask Mrs Bell who she and her husband had sold the house to. It must seem so strange for her to now live directly opposite the house she had lived in most of her married life.

  Rona was tapping in the entry code at the door when she noticed movement behind the glass panes. It was one of the residents and two carers. They’d been having some problems with Bob Campbell who was always trying to escape. She’d told Craig they should have kept the solid wooden door instead of the modern glass one, but he had argued the wood was rotting and glass let in so much more light.

  Once, soon after he had arrived, Bob became violent and was trying to poke his stick through the glass. Now he was much calmer, though he still tried to make a break for freedom every few days. He had an important appointment
at his bank, he would insist to anyone who cared to listen.

  Rona watched as two carers came to calm Bob down. One hand on each of his scrawny arms, they walked Bob down the corridor. Rona opened the door and went inside. Frank Sinatra was belting out ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ from the dining room. Most of the residents loved it when the carers played cassettes from when they were young, though Mrs Bell and Betty Chalmers always stayed away. They obviously felt listening to American crooners was beneath them.

  Rona took out the annexe key and paused at the door. Were there voices inside? She pushed open the door, tiptoed into the kitchen and gasped. There, at her kitchen table, sat Mr Burnside on his own, looking out of the window, muttering to himself. He had his sleeves rolled up and as Rona approached, she noticed again the tattoo on his forearm, the heart and anchor intertwined and some lettering in the middle she couldn’t make out.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Burnside. You’re not really meant to be in here, you know. This is the house where Craig and I live.’

  Mr Burnside smiled a gentle, benign smile and nodded. ‘I know, but I wanted to see where the baby’s going to be born.’

  ‘Well, the baby will be born in hospital, but, yes, this is where he or she will live.’

  ‘I brought something to show you.’ He delved into his pocket and thrust an old photo at Rona. ‘Thought you might like to see it since your baby will be here soon.’

  Rona sat down and looked at it. There was a small boy, about two or three years old, wearing breeches and a little jacket. He stood on a small stool beside a large pram which had wheels with large narrow spokes. Inside the pram, propped up on several cushions, was a baby. Its eyes were shut and its head leant to one side. It wore a long embroidered gown that stretched down to the end of the pram and spilled over the end. There were a couple of long-stemmed roses tucked alongside, as if the boy had placed them there, straight from the garden. The baby had tiny curls of blonde hair, just like the little boy whose hand held the tiny hand of the baby in the pram.

  ‘Who are they?’

  Mr Burnside pointed at the little boy. ‘That’s me, Rona. That’s me, can’t you tell?’ He beamed. ‘Look, can you see the dimple on my chin? My mother always said I got the family dimple.’

  Rona stared at the photo again. ‘Yes, yes, I can see that now. Is that your little sister?’

  Mr Burnside nodded. ‘Morag, yes, that’s Morag. I was to hold her hand for the man who took the photograph. Her hand was cold but I tried to warm it up. She loved me, Morag did. She …’

  There was a knock at the door and Rona stood up to open it.

  Ian stood there. ‘Sorry to bother you but …’ He realised Rona had a visitor.

  Mr Burnside waved the photo in the air. ‘I’m showing her the picture I showed you, Ian.’

  Ian strode over to the table, turning to ask Rona, ‘Is he meant to be in here?’

  ‘I don’t know how he got in. I must have forgotten to lock the door when I went round to Martha’s.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He turned to the old man and raised his voice. ‘Mr Burnside, I need you to help me with something next door. I’m going to oil the wheels of the new lady’s wheelchair. Could you give me a hand, please?’

  Mr Burnside sat up straight. ‘At your service, young man.’

  ‘Rona, d’you know where Craig put the WD40? I only noticed this morning how creaky the wheels were when I was helping the new lady out of the shower.’

  ‘Is she any more talkative this morning?’

  He shook his head. ‘But she’s smiling more.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her once I’ve had my tea.’ Rona went to the sink to fill the kettle. ‘Oh, I’ve no idea where the WD40 is, by the way. Try the cellar?’

  They walked towards the door and Ian steered Mr Burnside gently out into the corridor. ‘Wait for me over there, please. Take a seat by the cellar door. I’ve just got something to speak to Rona about.’

  He turned back to Rona. ‘That photo he showed you. Did you look closely?’

  Rona shrugged.

  ‘Notice anything odd?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Did you not see there were some flowers in the pram beside the baby?’

  ‘Yes, now you mention it.’

  ‘The baby was dead, Rona. He was holding his dead sister’s hand. For a bloody photograph. Bunch of weirdos, those Victorians. Really gave me the creeps. I told him to keep it in his cupboard and not to show it to anyone. He obviously forgot.’

  Rona’s eyes widened.

  ‘Are you all right? It’s horrible isn’t it?’ Ian put a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Why? Why would they do that? Take photos of dead babies?’

  ‘I looked it up in the library after he showed me the photo. Apparently that was what a lot of people did at the end of the nineteenth century. It was the only way they had to remember their dead. So many died as infants, it was just accepted.’

  Ian looked at his watch. ‘I’d better go and find the WD40. See you later.’

  ‘Okay.’ Rona shut the door and headed for the kitchen. What a hideous photo. Why hadn’t she realised the baby was dead? She looked down at her belly and stretched both hands over her bump, clasping her fingers together.

  Chapter 34

  1899

  Jessie emerged from the coal cellar and headed for the stairs then stopped on the bottom step. That evil look on Matron’s face and the fear on Effie’s were not normal. Perhaps she should go and check Effie was all right. But how could she? It wasn’t as if she could march up to the lodge house and demand to know what was going on. She was no one, a fisherlassie who had a curse.

  Jessie started to climb the stairs then stopped again. Surely the other passageway in the coal cellar led to the lodge house? If she went past the place she’d found the little woollen bootee hidden, there must be an entrance into their house, just as there was one in this big house.

  She ran upstairs to her bed and lifted the cloth bundle from under the mattress. Then, taking the stairs two at a time, Jessie headed back down into the cellar and through the tiny door into the coal cellar. For once she was glad of the blackness inside as she did not have to look at the word carved out by Effie’s scissors. Of course, now she knew Effie was Matron’s sister, it made sense why she had access to such things – and the bunch of keys too. Did Matron just give her the run of both houses? Was the diamond Matron had mentioned the one Jessie had found? If so, Jessie could be the reason Effie was in trouble.

  Jessie crawled along the dirty floor until she came to a pile of coal. Thankfully the coal hadn’t been there when Bertha and she had made their escape – her large, clumsy friend would never have been able to climb over the coals. Jessie, slender and nimble, clambered over the pile with ease and, when she came to where she thought the other tunnel was, she turned to the left instead of going straight down. There was a huge mound of coal here, even more than for the main house. Presumably Matron and the Governor kept their own little house cosy and warm while the inmates of the poorhouse shivered constantly from the cold. Jessie patted the walls around her and found the little shelf above her head where she had found the baby’s bootee. She headed over the sooty coals and stretched her hand forward. A sliver of light cut through the gloom. This must be the door of the lodge house coal cellar. Jessie pushed it slightly open, then hunkered down at the entrance, brushing some of the soot from her shift. She listened. She could hear distant voices approach. It sounded as if Matron was telling Effie to come and sit in the kitchen; the coal cellar must be just off the kitchen. Jessie strained her neck forward to hear.

  ‘Now, Euphemia, why don’t you sit down here and I shall fetch you some of Cook’s cake. It’s a seed cake. You like that, don’t you?’

  Jessie imagined Effie ramming the cake into her mouth as she had done in the kitchen that day. She heard the noise of plates clattering.

  ‘Do not eat like a peasant. You were not brought up to have the manners of one of the dreadful inmate
s in this vile place. You can do what you like over there but in this house you will eat like a lady.’

  ‘May I have the photograph back now?’ Effie mumbled.

  ‘Do not speak with your mouth full. We will see about this picture. All in good time. Now then, my dear, let us—’

  There was a noise of a plate smashing. Then a chair scraping. ‘You are so clumsy, Euphemia. Look what you have done! It is because you never sleep. Why don’t you sleep? Look at you, those great puffy bags under your eyes and your hair in that ridiculous childish plait. Why don’t we go to your bedroom, and we shall brush out your hair and perhaps find another frock to wear. This one is so tattered. You used to be lovely and then …’ Matron sighed. ‘Go and fetch the dustpan and sweep it up. And while you are on your feet, carry some more coal from the cellar. It is becoming cold in here.’

  Jessie drew back as far as she could without disturbing anything or making a noise, then waited for the door to be swung open wide.

  Effie stood at the entrance to the coal cellar with a brass-handled coal bucket in her hand. She took hold of the coal shovel and pushed the door, then must have noticed a bare foot for she peered slowly inside and saw Jessie, whose forefinger was at her lips. Effie opened her mouth to speak then scowled and shook her head. Jessie smiled and nodded her support.

  ‘Hurry up with the coal! the fire is about to go out,’ Matron called.

  Effie shut the door a fraction and went back with the bucket. Jessie leant forward and peered through the door; she was now able to see inside. Matron’s back was to her and she saw her toss the photograph from one hand to the other. Effie stoked the fire with coal and returned to sit beside her sister.

  Effie stretched out her hand. ‘Give it to me, Bella. It’s mine.’