Down to the Sea

by Sue Lawrence

  Ronald Mackintosh

  Solicitor

  Mackintosh and Mackay, Halifax

  Chapter 51

  1982

  Rona pulled Mrs Bell’s little woollen bootees onto Hannah’s tiny feet and laid her in the pram. They just fitted and Rona was keen to show Mrs Bell. Her mum, Morna, had arrived before lunch, so Rona was able to go to bed where she had slept for two hours. She felt much better now and wanted to go and show her baby off round Wardie House. Hannah was fed and changed and looked as ‘cute as a button’ as Morna kept saying.

  ‘I’m just going to make a stab at the ironing then I’ll start getting tea ready,’ she told Rona as she headed for the door.

  Rona pushed the pram out into the hall and looked up at the portrait. The dark eyes followed her as she walked. Perhaps the woman in the painting had had a small baby too. She moved closer to the painting and noticed once more that she held something between her fawn gloves. Was it, as Betty Chalmers suggested, the tip of a large diamond?

  Rona was staring at it when Betty Chalmers came towards her, her hands resting on the wheelchair sides as Tracey pushed her across the hall.

  ‘Ah, Rona, I was just saying how very much I wanted to see the baby.’ She peered into the pram. ‘Beautiful, so sweet.’ Betty snapped open her handbag. ‘Get out my purse, child, will you?’ Tracey unclasped the purse and handed it to Betty who pulled out a five pound note and tucked it into the pram, under the mattress. ‘That’s for luck, Rona. Now, I must be on my way. That nice young chiropodist is coming to cut my toenails.’

  Rona smiled and continued along the corridor to the lift. She went upstairs to Mrs Bell’s room. On the way, two more ladies insisted on putting money in the pram. Her mum had told her about the custom that when the baby went outside for its first walk in the pram, women gave money as a gift by slipping it under the pram covers. Inside Wardie House, it seemed rather odd. She knocked on the door to Room 12 and waited. ‘Yes, come in!’ said a voice.

  Rona wheeled in the pram.

  ‘Oh Rona, how good to see you and the baby.’ At the window sat Mrs Bell and beside her, in the place where the other chair should have been, was Jessie in her wheelchair.

  ‘Hello, Jessie. Good to see you’ve got a bit of company. How are you?’

  ‘Better, thank you.’ The voice was croaky but she was smiling. Jessie and Mrs Bell both peered inside the pram, cooing and saying how pretty Hannah was.

  ‘Jessie’s been telling me what life has been like in the lodge house for the past three years. She’s been pretty much confined to the house, poor thing. Haven’t you, Jessie?’

  ‘Yes, yes I have.’ Her voice was soft and hoarse.

  ‘It’s so good to hear you speak, Jessie,’ Rona said. ‘We thought you’d never speak again.’

  ‘My throat’s always been a problem, but I got hoarser and hoarser over the past two years and now can only speak in a whisper. The smoke in the fire obviously made it worse. You’ll have to shout too, I’m a little deaf.’

  ‘Oh, we’re all deaf in here, Jessie, don’t you worry about that,’ bellowed Mrs Bell.

  There was a knock at the door and Craig appeared. ‘Here you are, Rona. Morna’s desperate to get her hands on her grandchild again. Can I wheel her back down?’

  Rona smiled. ‘I’ll be down in two ticks.’

  ‘Craig is like a new man these days, Rona.’ Mrs Bell said as Craig pulled the door to. ‘He used to be rather, well, fickle, but now he’s reliable.’

  ‘He’s a good man,’ Rona said, smiling. She asked Jessie about how she was feeling and if there was anything she needed, before turning the conversation to Martha. ‘You know she’s still in the room next door to you? But she’ll be leaving us tomorrow. I remember you wrote that you didn’t want her back in the lodge house. Is there a particular reason?’

  ‘Because the Yank is a conniving, scheming woman who is after Jessie’s money,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘I’ve just been saying that, haven’t I, Jessie?’

  Jessie leant forward in her chair to whisper, ‘I’m afraid she is not as she seems. I’ve been scared to say anything and am just so relieved to be out of that house and away from her. Though I shall be glad when she leaves Wardie House for good. I explained all about it to Ian, who can perhaps fill you in on the details.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m tired now and my throat, though eased a bit, is still causing me problems. May I go back to my room, please?’

  ‘Of course, Jessie, you can have a nice rest before the tea trolley comes around.’

  ‘I’d like to put something in the baby’s pram. A gift. I’ll fetch it from my room.’

  Rona wheeled her away, thanking Mrs Bell again for the bootees. She set the wheelchair by the window then went back for the pram, shutting Mrs Bell’s door as she did. ‘Jessie, if we can rearrange some of the bedrooms and pull a few strings, would you like to stay on with us, in Wardie House?’

  Jessie smiled and nodded. ‘That would be wonderful, thank you very much.’

  ‘There’ll be some administrative things to work out first, though.’ How could Rona subtly ask about money for the fees? ‘Um, do you happen to know if you have much in the way of funds in the bank?’

  The old woman screwed up her eyes tight. ‘That’s the thing. I don’t know. Martha has been in charge of my accounts for two years now. I’ve no idea if there is anything left, even the money left to me by Bertha. She won’t answer me when I ask her and all the bank statements in the post she takes away before I can see them.’ Jessie sighed.

  ‘Don’t worry about it for now, we’ll sort something out.’

  ‘I do still have something of value.’ Jessie nodded. ‘Can you wait a minute, please? I’ve just thought of something.’

  Jessie reached her hand down and pulled a drawer open. It was her underwear drawer; inside were two neat piles of socks. Jessie stretched in and pulled out an ancient-looking pair of woollen bootees from underneath. Help, thought Rona, she was obviously about to be given some old, grey bootees for the baby. She suppressed a smirk.

  ‘I’m going to get something from the bathroom, if you could give me a hand in please?’

  Rona wheeled her in. ‘Can you manage?’ Perhaps she wasn’t getting the bootees after all.

  ‘Yes, everything’s to hand.’

  Jessie shut herself in the toilet and soon knocked on the door for Rona to wheel her out, which she did, parking her beside the pram. There was no sign of the grey bootees. Instead, Jessie held up a pair of brand new baby’s knitted bootees, in a beautiful pink. ‘I asked Tracey to go and buy a little something for the baby yesterday,’ she said, tucking them in under the blanket. ‘I hope they’ll bring luck.’

  Chapter 52

  1982

  ‘So, Jessie, I’m going out into the garden this evening. It’s foggy again and I am determined to find that diamond one way or the other. I know you’re making it up and that you do actually remember where you and Mad Effie buried the box. I’m going to keep digging till you tell me where it is.’

  ‘Please don’t call her that. She wasn’t mad, she was troubled. And, no, I still don’t remember where we hid it.’ She looked up at Martha whose expression was hard, focused. ‘Sorry,’ Jessie whispered. She mustn’t anger Martha, she must be cautious about what she said. It was now obvious that all she was after was the diamond and she would not let anything or anybody get in her way. Martha had told Jessie how she had met the new people next door and how they were setting up a care home for the elderly. Jessie had asked Martha if she could move in there. Was there enough money in her bank account? She’d been told that, at ninety-seven, the only move she’d be making was being carried out of the lodge house in a wooden box.

  The only good thing about Martha was that she could cook. Jessie was well fed with wholesome stews and soups. One time Martha had even produced a soup from bones from the fishmonger, and as Jessie took a mouthful of fishy stock, nostalgia for her childhood swept over her. She had sat in silence, her eyes shut, as
she remembered the taste of her youth. Martha also produced some delicious baking. Canadians were good at desserts and cakes, Martha had told her, which came from their Scottish heritage.

  After Jessie had read the letter from the lawyer, she’d put it back in the bin so Martha would never know she’d read it and that she now knew that Martha wasn’t Bertha’s granddaughter. There was no way Jessie could possibly ask Martha who she really was if not her old friend’s granddaughter. Martha now looked after Jessie’s entire life. Every single aspect of it she controlled, apart from the one thing Martha wanted, that one special object, hidden in a place Martha would never think to look.

  That day of the fall was awful. Martha had returned from the bank to find Jessie lying on the floor and instead of asking if she was all right, Martha had approached slowly, in silence. Martha probably hoped she was dead.

  ‘I’ll be going out any minute. It’s pretty foggy,’ Martha had said to Jessie about nine o’clock. ‘You can watch the news then I’ll get you into bed.’ She switched on the television. ‘Any final ideas about where the box is?’

  Jessie shook her head and as Martha slammed the door shut, Jessie tilted her head towards the window. Even through the heavy curtains, Jessie could hear it: the boom of the foghorn on the Forth, the noise she now always associated with that shocking night in 1899 when she had handed the gutting knife to Effie. And then, years later, Effie had shown her gratitude by leaving Jessie both the lodge house and the beautiful diamond.

  Jessie strained her neck back a little as she heard another noise. A squeaking noise, like wheels. She pictured Martha out there in the garden, the garden she used to be in so often as a teenager when she had to pick the meagre vegetables for Molly’s broth. Martha with the old, squeaky wheelbarrow that needed oiling, and the spade, digging and digging. In vain. She would find nothing. Only when Jessie could escape from here could she tell someone where it was. But who would she tell?

  Jessie turned round towards the television and watched as Jan Leeming stared at her from the screen. She missed Richard Baker, but she was happy the new newsreader was a woman. She sniffed then patted around in her pocket for her handkerchief. There was none, hers must have fallen out of her pocket. She looked around and it was then she noticed Martha’s handbag, within reach. Jessie could still hear the squeaky wheelbarrow being moved round outside, and Martha digging.

  Jessie grabbed Martha’s bag and looked inside. Trying to remember exactly where everything was, she took out things one by one. There was a purse, filled with five and ten pound notes, from Jessie’s account. There was a mirror, comb, lipstick, tissues, nail file. She unzipped one section and delved in, her arthritic fingers making the task laborious. She brought out a small, dark-coloured booklet and turned it over. It was a passport, a Canadian passport. She flicked to the end and stared at Martha’s picture. Her hair was much lighter and longer but this was definitely her. Martha Jean Sinclair, it read. And she was born in 1939, as she had thought. Nothing unusual there. She was about to place it back in when something fluttered out and onto Jessie’s lap. It was a small stiff envelope with ‘Gate Pay’ and ‘$100’ stamped on it. She lifted the corner and looked inside. There was nothing inside, but on the flap, in Martha’s handwriting, were the words, ‘100 dollars! Sure wasn’t worth two years inside!’

  Jessie’s eyes widened and, with shaky hands, she put everything carefully back in the bag. She lowered the bag back down onto the floor and turned back to the television where Jan Leeming was talking about the impact of the Falklands War on the economy. But Jessie was not listening. She had remembered seeing an American movie years earlier about prisoners released from prison and given some parole money called Gate Pay. Jessie’s hands were trembling; the person who had lived in her house for the past five years was an ex-convict. Was she a murderer like Bertha’s son?

  Chapter 53

  1982

  ‘Mum, if you don’t mind watching Hannah through here for a bit, I thought I’d start looking out some bits and pieces for the Wardie House fair? It’s a couple of weeks away, but I’d like to start now, while you’re here.’

  ‘No problem, my love.’ Morna scooped Hannah out of Rona’s arms.

  Rona headed for the bedroom, pulled out some cardboard boxes and began to make piles of old books and knick-knacks for the fair. It had been Ian’s idea to have a sale of work for any locals from north Edinburgh and also relatives of the residents. Their cook was going to provide sandwiches and a cream tea, and Rona had hired a pianist, so they felt they could charge a nominal fee for entry.

  Rona came to something solid at the bottom of a box and lifted it out with two hands. This was the jewellery box she’d found in the wardrobes down in the cellar when they first moved in. She tried to open the lid then remembered it was locked. Now she had more time to look at it, she saw it was beautiful – a dark inlaid wood, possibly mahogany or walnut. She’d read somewhere that Victorians used those woods a lot. There were brass mounts around each corner; it really was lovely. Rona stuck a paper knife in and tried to lever it open but didn’t want to break it. Perhaps someone would buy it without a key. Or perhaps someone had a key that fitted everything. She put it in the pile of fair items then took them all through the annexe and into the hall.

  Rona had just put the fair things in a corner when Mr Burnside came along the corridor, each arm leaning on a stick. He was becoming increasingly unsteady on his feet. He looked bereft without his pram, but the staff had decided it was becoming unsafe for the other residents as he kept bashing into them and elderly people bruised so easily. He had bumped into Betty Chalmers’ wheelchair again and she’d become angry, insisting he was trying to force her out of the way in the corridor. She sounded like a little girl in the school playground. ‘He rammed me, Rona, like a bulldozer! Tell him off!’

  ‘That’s a nice box, Rona,’ Mr Burnside said, spotting the jewellery box on the top of the pile of books.

  ‘I know, isn’t it lovely? But the thing is, there’s no key, so I’m not sure anyone will want to buy it. It’s for the fair.’

  Mr Burnside lifted up the box, inspecting the tiny keyhole. ‘Rona, there’s a key in the pram. I think it’ll fit.’

  ‘What pram?’

  ‘My pram. Underneath the blanket where Morag lay, there’s this big hole, it’s called a footwell. When she gets bigger, her feet will go in there. That’s where the key is.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Okay, I’m going to see if I can find it but I need someone to guard this pile of things till Craig can move them all down to the cellar for storage. Can you do that, please?’

  Mr Burnside stood up straight, pushing his shoulders back like a soldier while Rona hurried down the cellar steps.

  Rona walked over to the pram, remembering the last time she was down here, just before she went into labour. She looked inside the pram and saw the photo was still there. She lifted it up then took up the blanket, then the mattress which was covering the footwell. She looked in but could see nothing. She felt all around and came across something on one of the sides. There was something stuck with glue to the side. She bent over to look. There, encased in ancient-looking, crusty glue, was a tiny key. She tried to release it but could not, so she dashed to the foot of the stairs where Craig kept his tools and picked out a thin screwdriver. Rona chipped away the glue, scattering fragments over the footwell. She blew these away and lifted out the tiny key. She replaced everything, even the photo of the dead baby, then went back upstairs and straight over to Mr Burnside, who was perched on a seat by the door.

  ‘Sorry, Rona, I needed to sit down, but I’m still guarding your things.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’

  Rona bent over and inserted the key in the lock.

  ‘Hey, Rona, how’s the baby doing?’ It was Martha, emerging from the other side of the hall. She had her colour back and was once again made-up and well groomed.

  ‘She’s grand.’
>
  Martha looked down to see what Rona was doing, then gasped. ‘What’s that box? Is it an old jewellery box?’

  ‘Yes, it’s for the Wardie House fair. Victorian, we reckon.’

  ‘Geez.’ Martha was staring at it. ‘Where’d you find it?’

  ‘With some old things, in the cellar.’

  ‘Is that the key to open it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m about to try. I think it should fit.’ Rona turned the key and lifted the lid. Inside were faded satin, cushioned drawers which presumably would have taken individual pieces of jewellery.

  Rona opened a drawer. It was empty. Then a second, also empty. She was about to open another when Martha snapped, ‘Can I buy it?’

  Rona closed the box. ‘Well, we’ve not had the fair yet, Martha.’

  ‘But if I give you money for it now then it’s kind of the same, isn’t it?’ Martha pulled the box towards her. ‘How much do you want for it? Ten pounds? Twenty?’

  Was it worth that much? ‘I suppose it is maybe quite valuable, it’s an antique after all. Well, okay, I’ll give it to you for, let’s say twenty pounds?’

  Martha held tight onto the box.

  ‘Ha, no money, no box.’ Rona reached out her hands. ‘Twenty pounds first. Isn’t that right, Mr Burnside?’ She looked over at the old man whose chin had drooped onto his chest. He was sound asleep.

  ‘Wait right there, I’ll get my purse.’ Martha sped away, bumping into Ian as she ran along the corridor.

  He strode over to Rona. ‘What’s she up to? Why’s she still here? I thought she’d gone?’

  ‘She’s meant to leave tomorrow, but I’ve no idea where she’s going to go. Jessie doesn’t want her in the lodge house.’

  ‘Good reason too. I didn’t want to bother you with the baby and everything, but Rona, have you got ten minutes so I can tell you what Jessie’s been telling me?’