by Sue Lawrence
Effie had told Jessie over tea how Isabella had been their father’s favourite and so she was given the big diamond. Effie was given nothing; her father had never stopped resenting his third child, whose birth had resulted in the death of the love of his life.
Now that Effie slept at night in her bed and didn’t wander the corridors pushing a pram, she had seemed to Jessie to be better, though she was still scratching at the wooden table with her long fingernails. One remarkable difference was her hair. Instead of being pulled back into a tight plait, it was loose around her shoulders, long and straggly. While Molly had fussed about in the kitchen getting a tea tray ready, Effie had shown Jessie the rest of the house, stopping to point out her portrait which hung in the hall. ‘Look, Winzie! My hair’s over my shoulders now, just the way Paul liked it.’ Jessie had smiled but as she looked from the painting to Effie she saw not the luscious thick chestnut hair of the eighteen year old in the portrait, but the thinning grey hair of a forty-five year old. She had seen not the clear, unblemished complexion of youth, but the red-veined, wrinkled skin of an old woman.
Effie had shown Jessie into her bedroom where her eyes had been drawn to a small inlaid jewellery box in polished wood. Beside it, on the bedside table, the photograph of Effie’s baby was now in a little silver frame. She had brought it back into the kitchen and Jessie had taken it politely, noticing that it was rather crumpled under the glass, still creased from Bella’s angry hand that night. Jessie had had several months to consider that photo and so, when Molly had gone off to look for some jam in the larder, she had asked, ‘Why d’you think they took a photograph of the baby if they were about to give her away?’
Effie had touched the silver frame and checked Molly was not listening. ‘They wanted to make it look as though she had died.’
‘Why?’ Jessie had screwed up her face.
‘Most people of our standing have a photograph taken if the infant dies. That is why these flowers are laid on her shawl. But I heard her cry, I definitely did. I know she was alive when she was born, but Bella took her and smothered her. Andrew helped her. You heard her say that. It was the truth.’
Effie had had a crazed look in her eyes and Jessie had patted her scrawny arm but could think of nothing to say as she watched Effie place the frame in the middle of the table then rock back and forth, staring at it.
Jessie had left, promising to visit Effie the following week.
And now here Jessie sat, dangling her legs over the side of the harbour wall, above the lobster pots stacked up against the stone. She jumped down and walked along to the lamppost, remembering when she had left Bertha here all those months ago. She went up the narrow wynd towards the little cottage which she shared once more with Dorrie and her mother. Ma hadn’t needed much persuasion from Dorrie to accept Jessie back into the house. She had become even more pleased when Jessie showed her the gold brooch from Effie’s jewellery box. It was a gift, but her mother had insisted on pawning it immediately. She was delighted with the prospect of her daughter being friendly with a wealthy woman. ‘See if you can get something else from the mad old crone.’
‘Effie is not mad,’ Jessie had protested. ‘And she’s not rich, Ma. You know all she’s got is the lodge house. All the family money went on the burials.’ Her mother had disagreed, insisting that once rich, was always rich.
Effie had to be chief mourner at her sister’s funeral and she told Jessie that she had stood at the end of the grave smiling under her black veil, for she was so happy that her sister, her baby’s murderer, was dead. If only the little one could have been given a true Christian burial, Effie had said. She had no idea what they had done with her tiny body. As for Andrew, that was a different matter. The Church normally refused to bury someone who had taken his own life as he had; he was also an unconvicted murderer. But the minister at Wardie Church had made an exception and agreed that he could be buried, not in the same plot as his sister at Comely Bank cemetery but just outside the cemetery gates, by the wall. On the other side of the wall were crossroads, which, Effie had said, was appropriate, given the old custom was to bury people who took their own life beside crossroads.
There had been several constables in Newhaven asking questions about the murder too. It had been suggested, soon after the Governor had been buried, that in fact it was not he who had murdered his sister, but an intruder. The police had noticed a couple of sooty footprints on the kitchen floor and traced them down into the coal cellar, but because the coal man had just tipped a new bag of coal in and the coal reached up to the ceiling, their investigation had been put on hold. It was presumed the coal cellar was just that; there had never been any suggestion that it led to a smugglers’ tunnel. They soon gave up asking the fisherfolk about what they had been doing on the night of the murder. Besides, if he was not guilty, why would the Governor have taken his own life on that dreadful night?
That was the night that, once she had managed to clamber her way over the coal, Jessie had headed down the tunnel in the pitch black. Once out at the beach, she had run straight to the harbour, lowered herself down the slippy ladder and onto a rowing boat then rowed out into the Forth. It was foggy but she knew which direction to row. She had stopped after a few minutes, resting the oars on her legs, then leant over the side to wash the blood off the dress in the water. Then she had ripped the material into shreds with the knife and finally flung the knife far out into the deep water where it would have sunk into the sandy sea bed of the Firth of Forth.
Once back at the harbour, she had run along the harbourside towards Evelyn Peddie’s house. Outside her cottage was a basket of rags, cut into strips, for the fisherlassies to tie up their fingers each morning before they started on the gutting. She had lifted the wicker lid and thrown them in. It had been funny to think that her friends, and maybe even her sister, would be wrapping bits of Effie’s dress round their fingers the next day to protect them from their gutting knives.
And now, as she walked along the harbour towards her own cottage at dawn, Jessie looked down at her bare feet and thanked God she had big feet for a lassie. If the police had thought at any time it might have been a woman’s sooty footsteps, perhaps the blame would have shifted to her, but that had never even been considered.
Effie had been assessed by the doctor as sane enough to inherit. Molly had tidied her up before the doctor’s visit and insisted on cutting her nails, though she had let them grow since. She had put up Effie’s hair too and dressed her in her finest gown. Molly had whispered to Jessie at the door that she was still ‘no’ quite right’, but could at least attempt a veneer of normality now she was sleeping again.
Jessie looked up at the squawking gulls above, then pushed open the cottage door. Expecting there to be silence, she was surprised to hear voices. Now that she was living back home, Dorrie usually got up a little later, teasing Jessie that if she wanted to be best maid at her wedding the following month, she had to be the one to get up first and make the fire.
Jessie walked into the main room and noticed the bed Dorrie and she shared was empty. She looked towards the fire and saw a sailor sitting on the stool, warming his hands while Dorrie filled a kettle of water.
‘At last, Jessie. I wondered where you’d got to. This man’s come to see you.’
The sailor stood up and delved into the pockets of his navy-blue trousers. ‘I’ve just come off the ship from Halifax. My cousin said to bring this to you.’
Jessie took the letter and opened it. She skimmed down to the bottom. She smiled. ‘It’s from Bertha, Dorrie! Look at her terrible handwriting!’
Jessie sat down and read it out aloud.
Dear Jessie,
I hope this finds you well. I have some news. My baby boy was born on 16 August 1899 and he is bonny and healthy. I am a mother, Jessie. Can you believe it?
‘Bertha’s got a wee boy, Dorrie, isn’t that grand?’ Jessie said, laughing.
His name is Peter Mack Smith. The Mack is after you and the Smith is
my husband’s name. I met Peter Smith on the ship and we married when we landed in Canada. I am happy to be safely here and to have a husband and a bairn. And all because of you.
Jessie, I don’t know why, but I was given back the bootee on board ship by the captain who was an angry man. He was always very mean to me. He flung it at me one day and called me a terrible name I will not write down. I have no idea why he would give me back a precious thing like that, but he did and I thought you should have it back. Thank you, Jessie Mack.
From your good friend,
Bertha
‘There’s this wee thing too,’ the sailor said, delving once more into his pockets. He handed Jessie a small cloth bag with a drawstring which Jessie untied. Thrusting in her hand, Jessie pulled out a little baby’s bootee. She poked her fingers inside and gasped. She’d be heading up to Wardie Lodge House as soon as possible with a gift for Effie.
Chapter 43
1982
‘So did you get a video?’
‘No, sorry, darling, the video shop was shut.’
‘How come?’
Craig shrugged. ‘Shut on a Monday night.’
Rona lifted her feet from the coffee table and stretched over to pick up a newspaper. ‘Oh well, I’ll read the paper instead. Mrs Bell gave me her copy of The Scotsman.’
Rona flicked through several headlines until she came to one which said, ‘Cat predicts deaths in nursing home.’ She read the story about an old folks’ home in Lerwick where the resident cat had the habit of going to lie on a resident’s bed the night before they died. It described how the tabby, Vaila, would enter the room of a patient, stretch out on the bed beside the elderly person and go to sleep. Either that night or the following morning, the person died. One of the night nurses said she had taken to following Vaila up the stairs and watching the cat stop at the top as if assessing which direction to take. Vaila would slink along to a door, push her way in with her nose and settle down on the bed. Over a couple of years, Nurse Johnson said, the cat had predicted twenty-three deaths. Though there were two other cats in the home, neither of those had ever displayed a similar ability. ‘We are now wondering whether to alert the families when Vaila goes to sleep on a patient’s bed,’ she said.
Rona shivered and flicked onto the next page. There was a photo of a long kitchen knife which had been plunged into the neck of a woman lying in a hospital bed in Toronto by the patient in the next bed. She flung the paper onto the table.
‘Nothing but horrible news. Look at that knife.’ She pointed at the newspaper. ‘And thank God we never got a cat.’
Rona gasped.
‘What is it?’ Craig rushed over.
She smiled as she took his hand and laid it on her belly. ‘The baby obviously loves horror stories. It’s just done a couple of massive kicks. It’s so good to feel it move again. First time in ages.’ She reached up and gave Craig a kiss.
Rona sat back, then frowned. ‘Craig, can you nip upstairs and check on Martha’s room, please? I don’t trust her. I know she’s not well but …’
‘Don’t be daft. What, you think she’s going to murder someone with a kitchen knife?’
‘Please, just check?’
Craig sighed and headed for the door.
Rona was sitting up in bed reading Mr Bell’s history file when Craig came back in. ‘Wait till you find out what happened in Wardie House in 1899.’
Craig came to sit beside her on the bed.
‘Everything all right next door?’
‘Yes, I spoke to Fay. All’s quiet. She’s done the medicine trolley, lights out any minute.’
‘But did you check Martha’s room?’
‘I can’t just wander into her room without an excuse. Fay said everyone was in bed and ready for sleep. Now, what were you going to tell me?’
‘Remember the house was converted into a poorhouse in the 1870s? Well, in 1899 the matron was killed by her brother who was the governor. They were the Ramsays who used to live in Wardie House. And the younger sister inherited the lodge house when the main house had to be sold again.’
‘This place has had a bit of a dodgy history, hasn’t it? Is that why you reckon some of our residents could be crazed madmen and women intent on murder?’
‘Those newspaper articles didn’t help. And I was remembering when Martha tried to persuade me to get a cat; she reckoned it would be good for the residents. Actually, maybe it was a dog.’ Rona pushed the pillow up her back, wiggling into it to try to find a comfortable position. ‘The sooner we get rid of her the better. Also, I’ve been thinking about Jessie. How can we keep her here? A few days are okay, but with no one paying her fees it could become tricky. We’ve still got that loan to pay off. We’re not a charity. Sorry, that sounds mean. I’d love her to stay, but …’
‘You think too much. You should be having calm, gentle thoughts that are good for our baby.’ Craig pulled back the duvet and placed his hand on Rona’s belly.
‘Craig, just one final thing.’ Rona was frowning.
‘What are you worrying about now?’
‘It’s something I’m not worried about any more.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’ Craig looked uncomfortable.
‘You’re back to how you were before we moved in here. Not all edgy and … selfish.’ Rona studied Craig’s face carefully. ‘You’re not drinking at all now, are you?’
Craig took a breath. ‘Been going to AA once a week for some time now.’
‘What? You should have told me.’
‘I didn’t want to tell you in case I couldn’t keep it up. I’ve let you down before. It’s been a struggle, with the worries of the new business and all the money we’ve spent, but, well, I’ve done it. And Ian’s been brilliant.’
‘What’s Ian got to do with it?’
‘He’s been my AA sponsor for the past six weeks. He helps me along. He did so well himself in recovery.’
‘Why on earth did I not know this?’
Craig shrugged. ‘No need, darling. He’s been there when I needed to talk. He’s been brilliant to have around.’
Rona leant back against the pillow. ‘Now that kind of makes sense. The alcoholism must’ve been the health issues he referred to when there were problems with his references.’
Craig stroked his wife’s cheek. ‘Main thing is, Rona, I’m doing fine. I’m determined to keep on track. This baby will have two responsible parents, don’t worry.’
Part 4
Chapter 44
1978
Dear Miss Mack,
I am writing from Saskatoon, Canada. My family used to live in Halifax then moved out here to the Prairies where I was born.
I was given your address by my grandmother, Bertha Smith, who sadly passed away last year in her home in downtown Halifax. The reason I am writing is that I think you knew her well when you were young. Her son, Peter, was my father and though he too has passed away, I have heard stories about Bertha from my mother, Meg Smith.
I don’t know if you kept up with Bertha at all, but from my memory (we didn’t see them often – Halifax to Saskatoon is a five-day road trip) she was a sweet, kind old lady who cared very much for her family. She only had the one son, Peter, and he married my mother late – he was forty, she only twenty-five – but they were happy. He was a wheat farmer and was doing really well till his heart attack last year. Though Dad never spoke much about his mother, I got some stories from Mum, how you two lived in a place near Edinburgh called Newhaven and how you used to have to share a bed and have fun in that big house you both lived in. Mum wasn’t sure why you were there. She thought you might have been servant girls in a wealthy family’s house.
There is a classic story she told often about the family’s diamond, and it was the smuggled diamond which helped Grandma Bertha get to Canada in the first place, but then the diamond was returned to Scotland. Mum said Grandma Bertha told her about that trip by sea, how Grandma felt so nervou
s, then she met my grandfather who was working his passage out there to stay with relatives from Scotland. She didn’t even know where Canada was, but for some reason just wanted to get away and go somewhere new.
It would be wonderful to meet up with you. I presume you are at the lodge house still? If you are living by yourself, I hope you don’t think it too brash if I propose something. We North Americans are a bit less formal than the Brits! I am trained as a chef but also did some nursing when I left high school. I’ve done lots of other things, including marry an unsuitable American, but that is over now. I wondered if you might need someone to take care of you now you are in your nineties? Sorry if that sounds rather forward. But I am keen to visit Scotland and would love to have some kind of job. Would you consider taking me on? I am free, job-wise, from January.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Martha Sinclair
P.S. I make great stews and soups – and cakes are my speciality so I could take real good care of you!
Dear Mrs Sinclair,
How wonderful to think about Bertha after all these years. I was so sorry we did not keep in touch. But I have fond memories. I had heard, however, some news from someone who used to be with us in the big house you are talking about. She had met your grandmother about twenty years ago and I heard the sad news about your father going to prison. I had no idea Peter had a daughter, all of which makes it a delightful surprise that something good can come out of a tragedy that must have been so difficult to cope with.
