‘I’d like stories,’ I said. ‘Good old-fashioned stories. What could be more fun?’
There were a few groans from the younger girls but most of their elders were clearly equal to the challenge.
‘And on what topic?’ said Miss McCallum.
‘It can be anything at all?’ I asked.
‘Except party politics and sectarian religion,’ chorused Nicolette and Vashti as though they had said it many times before. There was a slight embarrassed titter.
‘Well, yes,’ said Miss Lindsay, ‘although I’m sure Mrs Gilver would not have dreamed of that.’
Actually, Mrs Gilver had dreamed of something much worse. My heart was knocking at the thought of my temerity, but it was irresistible.
‘Since it’s almost Hallowe’en,’ I said, ‘let’s have ghost stories. We must all tell a story – a true story, mind – that begins “One dark night, I was all alone and . . . ”.’
There was a blank silence and a few of the polite smiles around the room began to falter.
‘When I was a girl we always used to love to tell ghost stories,’ I said. ‘Just for fun, you understand.’
‘Aye well,’ said a voice, calmly. I did not look to see who it was who spoke. ‘That’s down there for you.’
As though things were not bad enough, in the silence which followed this leaden pronouncement, a girl who had been coughing quietly throughout the evening and had blown her nose repeatedly, suddenly let out an explosive sneeze and instead of the usual bless you, her neighbour said loud and clear: ‘Sneeze on a Monday.’ She bit it off short, but everyone in the room carried on in thought: kiss a stranger.
‘Or poems,’ I said, trying very hard not to sound frantic. ‘Everyone must know a poem.’
And so it came to pass that I let myself in for listening politely to half an hour’s worth of the most torrid Scotch poems imaginable: drowned maidens, duelling swains, doomed soldiers and even, I was irritated to note, a fair sprinkling of ghosts.
4
Lorna, the soul of diplomacy, would never have mentioned my faux pas, but as we made our way back up the lane to the green the Howies’ motor car slowed beside us and Vashti stuck her head out of the window and hailed me.
‘Such a hoot, your ghost story idea,’ she said. ‘Just the breath of fresh air this place needs. In fact, if you’re staying overnight at the manse, do come round in the morning. You too of course, Lorna darling.’ She withdrew her head as Nicolette ‘revved’ the engine and they roared off, leaving Lorna and me in awkward silence.
‘I must apologise,’ I said at last. ‘One forgets, even after all these years, what might cause offence up here in Calvin’s stamping ground.’ I remembered, too late, that Lorna’s father was a minister of the very church that was Mr Calvin’s legacy. ‘Not that I’ve anything against . . .’ but I could not continue. How could one not have at least something against some of it?
‘Oh, it’s not that,’ said Lorna. ‘Gosh, no. Luckenlaw is just as in thrall to a good spooky story as anywhere. You’ll have heard about the locked chamber?’
‘A little,’ I admitted.
‘Well, you wouldn’t believe the superstitious stories about it. Except that it’s rather mean to call it superstition, my father always says. Folklore, he says, is just history without the books. Or is it history that’s just folklore written down? Well, anyway,’ she concluded and in the cold glare of the moonlight I could see her beaming smile.
The women had come up the lane in a clump but were now splitting into small groups and pairs and setting off in their various directions, up to the green, down the lane to the road, through gates into the fields. No one seemed to be striking out alone, as I was relieved to see since I had not managed to attach myself to a likely victim, and no one seemed exactly what one would call anxious. There were no high spirits to be sure, but the cold air and the prospect of a long walk home might have been enough to account for that and I suspected too that the drawing to a close of this interval of camaraderie and a resumption of duties towards husband and home might be responsible for the downward droop of some of the shoulders and for the hefty sighs I heard being heaved on all sides.
Mrs Hemingborough, lugging her basket and accompanied by a young woman in a rather threadbare coat, walked with Lorna and me as far as the manse gate and carried on.
‘Have they far to go?’ I asked Lorna, gesturing after the pair. ‘I could always get my motor car.’
‘Oh no,’ said Lorna. ‘Only a step. Mrs Hemingborough is at Hinter Luckenlaw Farm and Jessie – she’s married to their cowman – has a cottage on the way.’
I was satisfied. Young Jessie was safe and the doughty Mrs Hemingborough with her strong hands was as likely to come off best in a tussle with the stranger as she was unlikely to be the object of his peculiar affections.
Anyone who has followed my short career, or indeed spent an afternoon with me I am afraid, will not be surprised to learn what happened next. Mr Tait and I were sitting before the fire minutes later, sipping our cocoa and already beginning to think of bed – Lorna had disappeared into the kitchen quarters with an apology and a muttered word about the next day’s menu – when we heard a hammering at the front door. Mr Tait put down his cup and rose to his feet and I was just thinking that he was taking this late-night rumpus suspiciously calmly, when he said to me:
‘Please excuse me, Mrs Gilver. It sounds as though some poor soul is in extremis tonight.’
At that moment, Lorna appeared through the connecting door into the dining room – a short cut from the kitchen, I guessed – and her father nodded at her. ‘Lorna will take care of you,’ he said. ‘Sleep well and I will see you in the morning.’
‘Poor Father,’ said Lorna once he had gone.
‘Yes indeed,’ I said. ‘I should have thought that being summoned to deathbeds in the night might make him regret those naughty little boys at Kingoldrum even if nothing else did.’
‘He does miss them sometimes,’ she answered, ‘but Luckenlaw called and my mother was very happy to come home again, I think.’ She looked as though she were about to say more, but at that moment Mr Tait hurried back into the room.
‘Mrs Gilver,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I could trouble you for a minute of your time.’
‘Father?’ said Lorna, half rising from her chair.
‘More unpleasantness, I’m afraid, Lorna,’ he said. ‘More of the same.’
She made as though to follow us out – I, of course, had leapt to my feet as soon as he spoke – but he raised his hand to stop her.
‘No, my dear,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you mixed up in this.’
‘But Father, our guest?’ she protested.
‘Was a nurse in the war,’ said Mr Tait. ‘You don’t mind, Mrs Gilver, do you?’
Between remembering that Lorna did not know that I knew what more of the same unpleasantness would be, and making sure to look suitably puzzled as a result, and also trying not to think about what I might be just about to witness, as well as trying to contain my eagerness to get at it, whatever it was (within reason), I could neither assemble a sensible expression nor summon a sensible response, and so I simply squeezed Lorna’s hand and left the room after her father, at a trot.
In the sitting room across the hall, horribly cold now hours after the teatime fire had begun to die down, Jessie the cowman’s wife was perched on the edge of a chair hugging her arms and trembling slightly either from fright or from chill.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ I said, guilt washing over me. ‘Oh my poor dear girl.’
Mr Tait was at that moment taking possession of a blanket and a steaming cup of something which a maid had brought to the room. He handed the cup to Jessie and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders with the tender dexterity the father of an orphaned daughter might be expected to show. She lifted the cup to her chin, breathing in the steam, and slowly her shivering began to ease. She was no more than twenty-five, at a guess, getting careworn – the wife of a farm w
orker has no easy time of it – but still young enough for the sweet steam from a teacup to turn her face instantly bonny and pink.
‘Now, my dear,’ said Mr Tait, with infinite patience in his tone. ‘You must tell Mrs Gilver everything. She’s here to help.’
‘It was jist like they said,’ said Jessie after another stiff swig of her drink. ‘A dark stranger.’
‘Start from the beginning,’ I told her. ‘You and Mrs Hemingborough left Lorna and me at the gate, and then what?’
‘We kept on up tae the corner,’ said Jessie, ‘and turnt into the farm road. My wee hoose is halfway along and the farmhoose is at the end, so I got hame first and Mrs Hemingborough carried on. I should have gone straicht in, but . . . I dinna ken, maybe because it was such a lovely nicht with the moon and a’ that . . . anyway I jist stood at my gate a while.’
‘You weren’t frightened?’ I said.
‘I was not,’ said Jessie. ‘I didna believe in this stranger, to be honest. Pardon me, Mr Tait, but it’s the truth.’ Mr Tait inclined his head graciously. ‘I always thocht that believin’ in all-what-have-you was for them as had a big wage and a wee family and no’ the other way on. I’ve been that proud and that sure o’ myself.’ She began to look white again and gently I tried to urge her back to the story.
‘What happened then? While you were standing at your gate.’
‘I saw somethin’ in the field,’ Jessie said. ‘It was movin’ richt fast, running across towards the lane, and before I got a chance to shout oot, I saw it lowp over the dyke and I heard Mrs Hemingborough.’
‘Mrs Hemingborough?’ I echoed. ‘It wasn’t coming for you?’
‘Oh no,’ said Jessie. ‘Thank the Dear. It made a beeline for Mrs Hemingborough and I ran to see could I help.’
‘Terribly brave of you,’ I said, thinking that there was a lot more iron in the soul of this girl than I could be sure of having in mine.
‘No’ really, madam,’ said Jessie. ‘More like I jist didna think. I never even thocht to go in and get John. I jist took off along the lane towards them. He had gone for her jist in the shade o’ a wee bush but I could still see them, quite clear I could see them in the moon we’ve got the nicht. They were strugglin’. Mrs Hemingborough and a man all in black. And Mrs Hemingborough was shoutin’ at him so I shouted too: “Get away fae her. Get away, you filthy so-and-so.” And when he heard me, he let go of Mrs Hemingborough and he was back over that dyke and away across the fields afore you could snap your fingers at him. And Mrs Hemingborough was standin’ there, wi’ her hat torn off and her hair all hingin’ doon and those blessed feathers burst oot o’ her sack and swirlin’ aboot.’ Jessie, finally, gave a sob and then took another draught from her cup.
‘And where is she now?’ I said. ‘At home? Have your husbands gone after him?’
‘Well, this is the thing,’ said Jessie, and her face puckered with concern. ‘Mr Tait, I jist don’t know what to think. I got to her side and I asked her if she was a’richt and she telt me of course she was, she jist tripped and drapped her bundle and look at the feathers! And she was laughin’ – tryin’ to anyway.’
‘Laughing?’ said Mr Tait, sounding more severe than I had ever heard him.
‘I hardly kent what to say,’ said Jessie. ‘What aboot him? I asked her. Did he hurt you? And she drew hersel’ up and said she didna know what I was talkin’ aboot and she didna want to hear any nonsense fae me. Well, I know my place and nobody can tell me I don’t but my dander come up at that. I saw him, I telt her. I jist saw the whole thing plain with my own two eyes, and then I telt her that I was goin’ to get her husband and mine and send them away after him. But there was no shiftin’ her. She said she didna know what I was talkin’ aboot and she was “disappointit”. She said she had never thocht I was the kind o’ lassie who would start up wi’ a load o’ silly nonsense. She said that her husband needed a good cowman and a good cowman needed a good steady wife and I should think on that afore I started tattlin’.’
‘Whatever did she mean?’ I said.
‘A threat,’ said Mr Tait. ‘Quite obviously a threat to give John Holland the sack.’
‘And we’re in a tied hoose, madam, with three bairns,’ said Jessie, growing visibly upset again. ‘If I lost John his place, and the lot o’ us ended up putten out on the road I would jist never forgive myself. So I never went and telt Mr Hemingborough and I willna tell John either or anyone else. Only I had tae tell somebody, so I came roond to Mr Tait.’
‘And you’re absolutely sure of what you saw?’ I asked her, looking very closely into her face. She nodded vigorously.
‘As sure as I’m sittin’ here,’ she said. ‘And I ken it’s no’ richt to let him get away wi’ it, no matter whit Mrs Hemingborough says. I dinna ken what’s wrong wi’ her.’
‘No more do I,’ I said, ‘but I’m going to try to find out.’
‘No, madam, please,’ said Jessie, looking quite stricken with anguish. ‘Oh Mr Tait,’ she wailed. ‘Please. If Mrs Hemingborough finds oot I’ve telt—’
‘I’ll keep your name out of it, Jessie, I assure you,’ I told her. I had no clear idea how I should manage this, but I trusted to think of something. ‘Now,’ I went on, ‘this is very important. Tell me everything you can remember about this fellow. Tell me everything you could see.’
Jessie shuddered but spoke up gamely. ‘He was a’ dressed in black, I ken that for sure.’
‘Tall, short? Thin, fat?’ I said. ‘Could you tell if he was a young man or was he stiff and elderly in the way he moved?’
‘Oh no,’ said Jessie. ‘He was anythin’ but that. No’ very tall, I dinna think. He wasna loomin’ over Mrs Hemingborough and she’s no’ much taller than me. And no’ fat. He was . . . snaky.’ She seemed almost as startled to have said this as Mr Tait and I were to have heard it, but after blinking she nodded. ‘Aye, that’s it. He was snaky. The way he moved, you ken? He wasna like a man in heavy boots moves, he was jist snaky. The way he come over the dyke and the way he was all over Mrs Hemingborough.’ She shuddered again. ‘It was horrible.’
‘It sounds it,’ I said. ‘Now come along. I’m going to run you home.’
When I stopped the motor car at the Hollands’ cottage gate and stepped down to let Jessie out, she pointed to the great mess of feathers lying on the lane and caught in the bare branches of a hawthorn bush a little way along. In the moonlight, they were as plain as day and I could see no possibility for Jessie to have imagined the scene she had described to me. The sound of the engine brought a young man to the cottage door – John, I guessed – and since he frowned in puzzlement, I called to him.
‘We ran on late at the Rural, Mr Holland. I’m delivering Jessie home.’
He nodded, although still frowning slightly, and Jessie scurried past him into the house. Perhaps my presence and the lift in a motor car would, in John’s eyes, tip the Rural firmly over into the realms of gadding about and young Jessie’s monthly excursions would be over. I hoped not, but then one had to question whether after the experience this evening she would ever cross her door in the dark again. I drove on a little way – I had to turn in a field entrance – and stepped down to look at the scene in the light of my headlamps. There were a great many trodden and over-trodden footprints in the muddy lane just by the hawthorn bush with feathers pressed into them here and there, but much as I should have liked to point to two distinct sets of vastly different sizes, nothing so clear presented itself to me. Anyway, the ‘snakiness’ of the dark stranger had to have its origin somewhere in his physique or deportment even if Jessie could not put her finger on its source and I imagined that anyone light enough in his movements to earn the description must have rather neat little feet. Full of questions and utterly empty of answers I got back into the motor car and drove home.
In the morning, I had a rare brainwave. I was at the washstand in my bedroom, shivering in my petticoat despite the fire which had been relit at seven by a cheerful little maid, and admiring
the scene outside the window; the spare bedroom of the manse was at the back and looked out over fields towards the law. It was the hill, naturally, which held my attention at first but then movement in the foreground caught my eye and I saw a farmer on a cart, precariously laden with turnips, making his careful way along between the hedgerows one field’s distance from the house. After gazing at him until he was out of sight again in the usual witless fashion of the early morning, I suddenly realised several things: that this lane must be the one which led to Hinter Luckenlaw Farm; that since I could see the lane from my bedroom window I could perhaps – had I been looking out at the right moment last night – have seen the scuffle with the stranger; and that the wiry little man on the cart whom I had just watched lumbering along this lane was more than likely Mr Hemingborough – for he was too well turned out to be a labourer and who else would be heading away from his farm in the morning with a cartload of turnips – which probably meant that Mrs Hemingborough was at home alone.
I dressed rapidly and waved my hairbrush around my head in a token gesture at a toilette – in fact, whenever Grant sends me off on an overnight stop without her, she sets my hair so very firmly the day before that it would take far more robust a tool than a mere hairbrush to make a dent in it – and skipped downstairs hoping that breakfast in the manse was a brisk affair and I could soon escape.
The sight of Lorna beaming behind two enormous teapots and Mr Tait in a cardigan jersey and with a napkin tucked in at his neck soon did away with any thoughts of a hasty exit from the morning gathering of the little household however. Not wishing to be rude, I settled myself for the duration.
Bury Her Deep Page 5
